


Victory or Sovngarde

by imnerdyandimproud



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, High King Ulfric Stormcloak, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 66,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnerdyandimproud/pseuds/imnerdyandimproud
Summary: Svala never asked to be the Dragonborn. Ulfric never asked for her help in his war.
Relationships: Brynjolf/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak
Comments: 13
Kudos: 87





	1. One

Windhelm was chilly and bleak, as usual. Svala wasn’t particularly fond of Skyrim’s oldest city, but as of late her preference meant little to nothing in regards to her travels. Adjusting her knapsack, she turned to make her way into the local inn, Candlehearth Hall, but soon found herself distracted.

“Damn grey-skins! Get out of our city, filthy Imperial Spies!”

She could feel the anger bubbling up within her. A Nord herself, Svala was intimately familiar with her peoples’ idea of what a perfect Skyrim would contain: Nords, and Nords only. However, she wasn’t like most Nords- she bore no ill-will towards other races living within her land, and would not tolerate any form of injustice. It just wasn’t within her to walk away.

Besides, she was itching for a good fight.

“What did you say?” She growled, staring at the source of the shouting; a drunken, dirty man stinking of mead.

“You heard me,” He slurred, narrowing his eyes at her. “As far as I’m concerned, if you’re a lover of that filthy lot, then you’re an Imperial Spy too.”

Svala snorted incredulously, smirking despite herself, before winding up her punch and clocking the imbecile hard across the jaw. He stumbled backwards, falling hard onto the cobblestone street. “For your information, I’m no spy. I’m the Dragonborn, and you’d do well to remember it.”

The man glowered up at her, spitting blood. “Dragonborn? Bah. I don’t remember hearing that the Dragonborn had a cunt in any of the old legends.”

Svala rewarded him with a swift kick in the ribs. She was about to continue when, from behind her, she heard, “Halt! By order of the Jarl!”

She turned, groaning at the appearance of the Windhelm Guard. She had been trying to be discreet, but once again, her temper had gotten the better of her. “Let me guess- I’ve ‘committed crimes against Skyrim and her people’, yes?”

The guard floundered for a second, caught off guard by her mimicry. “Well..yes...what say you in your defense?”

Svala snorted. “I’ll come quietly. I was on my way to the palace anyway.”

* * *

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was a busy man, and not a very patient one by his own admission. So when the city guard had the audacity to bring a minor criminal in front of him, as he poured over plans with Galmar in his war room, he was less than amused. “I trust you have a good reason for this interruption,” he growled without raising his head.

“Sir, this woman was attacking Rolff Stonefist in front of Candlehearth Hall.”

“And?” Ulfric drawled, his thoughts turning on how to effectively capture Whiterun. Perhaps if he sent Balgruuf his axe, it would spur the man into action... “Throw her in a cell. I don’t have time for this.”

“She also claims to be the Dragonborn.”

Both Ulfric’s and Galmar’s heads shot up, swiveling to stare at the prisoner. She was a Nord, with fiery auburn hair and intense green eyes ringed with black streaks of war paint. A long, jagged scar ran from the corner of her right eye down to the corner of her jaw. Her body was thick with muscles and more scars, from what he could see outside of her plain, hide armor. A glowing battle axe was strapped across her back. “Is that true?” He addressed the woman now. “You’re the Dragonborn of legend?”

“Jarl Balgruuf and the Greybeards seem to think so,” she grumbled with an eye roll. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“No, apparently you’re just here to beat my brother,” snorted Galmar with a dark laugh. “Though I’ll admit, I’d have liked to see him get his ass handed to him by a woman.”

“Watch your tongue,” spat the Dragonborn, her eyes flashing dangerously. Was it Ulfric’s imagination, or did they glow for a moment? “Or I’ll cut it out.”

“Enough,” Ulfric sighed. “I suppose I should ask why you are here, Dragonborn. I’m sure you’re quite a busy woman, as I am a busy man myself.”

“Actually, I think you’ll find our interests are about to collide,” she said with a smirk, that mischievous, angry glint still within her eye. “I’m here to offer you my services in this little rebellion of yours.”

“You...you want to fight?” Ulfric was stunned. The Dragonborn of legend was within his palace, willingly offering to fight, for him? Her presence alone could mean the turning of the war, not to mention the affect it would have on the morale of his troops...still. He recovered quickly, keeping his face cool and impassive as always. He would not let this Dragonborn know how badly he wanted (or needed) her as an ally. “Galmar is in charge of the new recruits. Ask him.”

“I’m asking you,” she growled, impatience seeping into her voice. “This is your war, is it not Jarl Ulfric? And given the intelligence of the man I just bested, forgive me if I don’t have the upmost confidence in that particular familial line.”

Ulfric’s eyes widened in shock as Galmar let out an indignant shout and the (seemingly forgotten) guard tried to stifle his own laugh by turning it into a cough. “You are bold, to speak to your Jarl this way, woman.”

“Woman, eh? Not Dragonborn anymore?” Something about her face changed, then, a softening if Ulfric was being honest. Her scarred lip quirked upwards in what resembled a true smile. It wasn’t an unpleasant sight, if Ulfric were to be honest with himself. “I have an actual name, you know.”

“Then present it to Galmar,” Ulfric countered with a smirk of his own. “He can give you your uniform and show you to the barracks.” With that, the Jarl of Windhelm turned on his heel to retire to his chambers for the night, ignoring the escalating argument between Galmar and his newest recruit.


	2. Two

Svala lie awake in her bed in Candlehearth Hall that night, thumbing through the dossier on Ulfric she had acquired within the Thalmor Embassy. Her new Stormcloak uniform lay in a crumpled heap next to her bed, which Galmar had handed her along with a rather severe tongue lashing about “respecting the chain of command”. That pompous blowhard was going to make her retrieve an ice wraith tooth, in order to prove herself, but had reconsidered when she had emptied out not one, but _five_ ice wraith teeth on the table before him with a steely glare.

“Don’t fuck this up,” had been his final warning as he handed her the uniform. “Ulfric sees something in you, Dragonborn, but I’m not convinced. It’ll take a lot more than some teeth to prove yourself to me.”

It was rather refreshing, she thought to herself, to have to prove herself to anyone since she had been discovered as the Dragonborn. The title alone seemed to convince people that she was able to preform miracles, or that she was some sort of legend made flesh. It was all very daunting, honestly. Svala longed for the days she could just disappear into the forests of the Rift, alone except for her horse and hunting dog. Unfortunately, those days had been obliterated long before she became the Dragonborn- they ended the day she had been captured by the Thalmor, which ultimately had led her on a wagon to Helgen, awaiting the block.

 _He was made to believe information obtained during his interrogation was crucial in the capture of the Imperial City (the city had in fact fallen before he had been broken) and then allowed to escape._ Svala shook her head as she read, swigging mead from the bottle. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the Bear of Markath, broken by some elves. The Rolff Stonefists of the world who believed in his “Skyrim for the Nords” would never believe it. Luckily for Ulfric, Svala was no stranger to just how ruthless the Thalmor could be in their...interrogation methods, and honestly respected Ulfric (a little) for how long he had managed to hold out without breaking. It wasn’t as though she hated the man, however, she just thought him arrogant and self-serving, not unlike most of the other men of power she had the misfortune to meet. Her fingers ghosted along the scar running the right side of her face.

 _A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloak must be carefully managed._ Svala grinned. She pressed on the handwritten words, feeling the ink smear underneath her fingertips. She had reread that sentence every night, for a fortnight, dating back to the very day she’d stolen the dossier. The Thalmor didn’t want Ulfric to win, eh? Well, that was as good a reason as any to tie herself to his cause. Even if it meant putting up with the man himself. 

* * *

“We need to send a message,” Galmar was explaining to Ulfric as passionately as always, but the Jarl’s mind was on other things. Particularly, his newest recruit- the Dragonborn. There was something about the Nord that was...familiar to him, although he was unable to place it. “Well? What do you think?”

“Hmm?” Ulfric turned his attention back to his second in command. “Oh yes, Balgruuf. I have a plan on dealing with him. I’m thinking about sending the Dragonborn to Whiterun.”

“The Unblooded?” Galmar snorted. “Why her? Because she’s the Dragonborn?” He spit on the ground. “I don’t even believe that she is. You ever see her kill a dragon?”

“Because she’s thane of Whiterun,” Ulfric pressed his fingers to his temple; he could feel a headache brewing. When had things become so complicated? His place was on a battlefield, with a sword in his hand, not in the palace playing politics.

He so desperately wanted to be the king Skyrim needed, the king Skyrim deserved, but with each decision he felt as though it was becoming an impossible dream. “Regardless if she’s the Dragonborn or not, Balgruuf believes that she is, which means he will be more receptive to what she has to say. Remember, I’d like Balgruuf as an ally rather than an enemy. The less bloodshed, the better.”

“Have you forgotten this is war?” Galmar’s bushy eyebrows raised incredulously. “We have the men. We have the element of surprise. We should take the city now!”

“No.” There was an edge in Ulfric’s voice that he rarely used with Galmar, his friend, of all people. “Jorlief?” His steward came at once, appearing in the entrance to the war room. “Fetch the Dragonborn.”

* * *

Svala detested being “fetched’. Yet there she was, standing in front of Ulfric as he sat high on his throne. “You wanted me?”

Was it her imagination, or did he blush a little at her words? “Yes. I did. I need you to deliver a message for me.”

She snorted. “I’m not a courier. You know, when I agreed to join your war, I thought it would be as a soldier and not an errand girl.”

“I want you to deliver my axe to Jarl Balgruuf,” Ulfric continued stonily as though he had not heard her. “I’m aware that he made you his thane, and that you own a home within the city. Since you two are...familiar, I’m sure that this would be an easy task for you.”

She shrugged. “Just the axe, eh? Nothing else?” Her eyes fluttered to Galmar, who was glowering at her from the war room as he attacked a loaf of bread. Interesting. It seemed as though there was trouble in paradise between the Jarl and his dog.

“Men who understand each other often have no need for words. There are but a few simple truths behind one warrior giving another his axe. Balgruuf will know my meaning.” Ulfric’s piercing blue gaze roved over her face with such scrutiny, that Svala almost flinched from it. “Before you go, Dragonborn, I must admit that you look...familiar to me.”

“I would hope so,” she smirked, approaching the throne to receive Ulfric’s axe. “We shared a wagon ride to Helgen together.” Ulfric’s eyes widened with comprehension, and a small smile tugged at the sides of his mouth. “Ah. Yes. You were much...thinner then.”

“Dirtier too,” Svala laughed bitterly. “But I suppose the Thalmor aren’t known for their hospitality.” She relished in the brief look of sympathy that flashed across the Jarl’s face as she brushed her fingers against his knuckle, taking his axe from him. His hands were just as massive as the rest of him, she noticed absentmindedly. Rough, and calloused too. Warrior’s hands. “I’ll make sure Balgruuf gets your message.”


	3. Three

  
_She remembered the feeling of his hands, mostly. The Thalmor were known for using magic to fight their battles, so their hands were smoother than a warrior’s. The buttery feeling of soft skin sliding over her body made her stomach clench and her shiver with displeasure._

_“So sensitive,” **he,** Trearil, purred, groping her roughly. Svala attempted to spit at her captor, but was unable due to the gag within her mouth. “I expected your body to be as rough as the rest of you, but I’m pleasantly surprised that’s not the case.” Trearil’s face dipped to nuzzle along her breasts, giving Svala the opportunity to collide her head into his face. He recoiled with a gasp of pain, blood gushing from his nose. “Now now, is that any way to treat your host?” He growled, shocking her with powerful sparks conjured from his palm. Her body spasmed in pain and she let out a weak cry through the gag. Trearil was unamused, turning his magic onto his own face next to heal his broken nose. A faint golden glow encompassed the break, setting it instantly._

_“Playtime is over, I’m afraid,” He said, staring at her with a lecherous grin. “But don’t worry, sweet, we’ll have plenty of time to continue later.” Svala thrashed against her bonds, screaming curses into the gag. “I know, I’m disappointed too. But, business comes before pleasure.” Trearil ran a hand through her dirty, lank hair, mocking comfort. “But first...what can you tell me about dragons?”_

“Hey! We’re in Whiterun!”

The gruff call from the carriage driver awoke Svala with a start. There was the familiar sensation of nausea in her stomach along with cold sweat on her brow that usually accompanied her nightmares. Grunting her acknowledgement at the driver, she dug out 20 gold to pay the man, before hopping out of the carriage and making her way into city. Night had already fallen, so her sense was that Balgruuf had already retired to his chambers for the night. Not wanting to wake the Jarl and start off the meeting on a bad note, she opted to spend the night in Breezehome instead.

“I trust you’re not planning any trouble. What can I do for- Svala??” Lydia, her housecarl, began as soon as she opened the door, her greeting turning to one of surprise when she saw Svala’s face. “You joined the Stormcloaks?”

She had forgotten she was still wearing her new uniform, and not her usual armor. “Hey. Long story. Got any food?”

“That’s it?” Lydia continued, frowning. “You disappear for weeks and come back in Stormcloak armor without any explanation?? I was looking for you, you know! I thought you were dead!” The brunette’s voice grew higher in pitch, reaching hysterical levels.

“There are worse things,” Svala muttered darkly to herself, sighing. She knew Lydia meant well and was only looking out for her (which was, essentially, her job), but Svala was always uncomfortable when others showed any sort of genuine care for her or her wellbeing. Sure, now that she was the Dragonborn many people claimed to care about her and her interests, but she knew it was only a means to an end for them. They wanted her for her title, her abilities- nothing more. Lydia, however, cared about Svala as...well, Svala. It was deeply unsettling, and probably the only and closest thing Svala had to a friend. “I’m sorry, Lyds. I didn’t mean to scare you. But something came up and I had to see it through. Now can I _please_ have something to eat?”

Lydia glared at her for a minute more before nodding. “There’s some horker stew over the fire. Help yourself. This is _your_ house, after all.”

After she was fed, Svala filled Lydia in on her time in Windhelm and the message she had to deliver to Jarl Balgruuf. Lydia listened patiently, keeping her expression neutral, though as Svala finished her tale she could tell that the housecarl was troubled. “Svala...Balgruuf is loyal to the Empire. He will side with the Imperials, you have to know this.”

Svala shrugged. “That’s not my problem, it’s Ulfric’s. I’m just here to give him the option. Something tells me that even giving Balgruuf a chance to accept or deny the Stormcloaks is a kindness on Ulfric’s part. His dog, Galmar, was not too happy about me coming here.”

“Then you must be careful,” Lydia cleared her bowl and helped Svala take off her cuirass and her chain mail. “And might I suggest _not_ wearing your uniform to Dragonreach? It might put the Jarl off immediately. He’s fond of you, you know, so better to go as yourself and not a courier for Ulfric.”

It was sage advice, Svala had to admit. She smiled- that was Lydia, always 5 steps ahead of everyone else. It was why they made such a good team when they traveled together. “You’re probably right. I’ll wear my own armor. Thanks.” With that, Lydia departed with a nod for bed, and Svala opened a bottle of mead. She hoped to drink herself into a peaceful, dreamless, sleep.

* * *

Ulfric had been restless until he knew the Dragonborn was back in Windhelm. The thought of Balgruuf’s answer had him on edge; he much preferred the man would see sense and lend his aid to Ulfric’s cause, but the Jarl of Windhelm knew better. Balgruuf was a stubborn man, and his neutrality in the war thus far had only confirmed Ulfric’s suspicions that he was remaining loyal to the Empire. Still, Ulfric needed Whiterun, and would have the city with or without its current Jarl.

“I have your answer,” he could hear the Dragonborn coming before he could see her, as it were. Ulfric had been in his war room with Galmar, as usual, discussing battle plans when he heard the palace doors swing open and the voice of his most headstrong recruit enter. Jorlief skittered after her, trying to get her to wait for his reappearance in the throne room. However, she was not to be deterred, and tossed his axe on the table without ceremony, knocking over a few flags from his map in the process. “I take it you know what this means?”

“Give the word, my lord, and Whiterun is yours,” Galmar growled beside him, bloodlust in his eye.

Ulfric sighed. “Is any man ever ready to give the order that will mean the deaths of many?” He was no stranger to war, or death, which is why the thought of killing more sons and daughters of Skyrim wearied him greatly.

“No,”. Galmar agreed quickly. “But neither is every man able to give that order when he must. But you _are_ that man, Ulfric. You’ve been that man before, and you’ll be him again. And these men and women- they call themselves Stormcloaks because they believe in you. They are the meanest, toughest sons of bitches Skyrim has to offer. And they want this. They want this as much as you do. Perhaps, they want it more.”

Ulfric considered this for a moment, and then turned his attention to the woman waiting within the shadows. “And what say you, Dragonborn? Is it time to take the city?”

“I’m just a soldier,” she snorted, shaking her head. “Your housecarl here has just given you a better speech than I ever could, so why ask me?”

Ulfric studied her closely, taking in her momentary look of surprise as he asked for his input. Ah, yes. He could remember her in Helgen clearly now, that same incredulous look upon her face, mingled with her rage, as she strode defiantly towards the block. It was her eyes, he decided. So passionate, so green, like chips of flawless emerald. He couldn’t believe he had overlooked her the first time she had travelled to him, wishing to join his ranks. A woman like her was not easily forgotten. It must have been the shock of hearing that she was the Dragonborn, Ulfric decided. “You’re more than just a soldier, you are the Dragonborn. And Whiterun is your home. You have as much at stake in this decision as I do.”

She was quiet for a moment, considering. “Balgruuf was drafting a letter to Tullius as I was leaving. I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. Either take the city now, or deal with an Imperial onslaught later.”

Ulfric nodded. She was smart and calculated when she did not let her temper cloud her judgement. “You’re certain we’re ready?” He asked, turning his attention back to Galmar, trying not to notice the small flush creeping up the Dragonborn’s fair skin. “Whiterun’s army will no doubt be bolstered with. And those walls around Whiterun are old, but they still stand.”

“We are ready. And I might be old myself, but I’ll kick those damn walls down with my bare feet- if you would only ask me to do it!” Galmar cried, thumping a fist on his chest.

“I’m sure the smell alone could cause the walls to fall,” the Dragonborn muttered under her breath, and Ulfric chuckled. Again, her emerald eyes flickered to him, the hue of pink on her cheeks deepening.

“Ha, I’m sure you could do it, too. Alright.” Ulfric sighed once more, cracking his knuckles. “This is it. Send the word; ‘a new day is dawning and the sun rises over Whiterun.’””

Galmar grinned, “Aye and the sons of Skyrim will great that dawn, teeth and swords flashing.”

“So it begins,” Ulfric turned to look at the Dragonborn once more. She did not seem as excited for battle as Galmar, but nor was she has hesitant as Ulfric was himself. If anything she seemed rather...bored. “And...?” He motioned to her, waiting for her to fill in the gap with her natural name, not Dragonborn or Unblooded.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Svala,”

“Svala,” the name tasted good on Ulfric’s tongue. A good, old Nord name for a strong Nord woman. Fitting. “Good work. I want you on the battlefield, tomorrow, the front lines. I have a feeling about you.”

Her face as red garnet, she simply nodded before scurrying out of the room.


	4. Four

The sounds of battle were nearly imperceptible over the frantic beating of Svala’s heart. Warm blood sprayed her in the face, and she was vaguely aware of an arrow sticking out of her thigh. Still, she continued forward, swinging her axe gracefully as she sliced Imperials in two.

Truth be told, it was the first battle of this magnitude Svala had ever fought in. She was used to the odd melee with bandits, something that she had been indoctrinated to in her younger years, and of course was familiar with cutting down a small gathering of necromancers or vampires. But full on war? She couldn’t rightfully say this was something she had ever experienced before. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying at once.

“We need to get that drawbridge down!” Galmar shouted as he buried his axe in the skull of the Imperial soldier closest to him. Svala turned her attention to the top of the drawbridge, where the control mechanisms were located; there were archers crawling everywhere. To try and take them head on would be suicide. Luckily for her, she _was_ the Dragonborn.

“ _Fus Ro Dah!”_ She shouted, calling the power of her thu’um into her throat. A gust of force knocked the drawbridge open, sending bits of splintered wood flying and the Imperial archers from their perch. Her eyes connected with Galmar’s; she was pleased to see the dumbfounded expression on his old face. She was about to goad him into saying something when she felt the sharp kiss of metal along her side. With a snarl, Svala whirled, throwing the dagger she kept sheathed on her thigh through the air. It met it’s mark, landing home in the right eye of an Imperial. He groaned once before falling dead.

Galmar nodded curtly at her before barking, “Into the city! We take Dragonreach!” She didn’t need telling twice; she sprinted ahead with a group of comrades, cutting through 3 members of the Whiterun guard. As more guard members saw her and her small battalion approach, they fell into a heap on the ground, shielding their heads. “We yield! We yield!”

“Pathetic,” spat the Stormcloak on her right as he removed the head of one. “There is no place for cowards in Sovngarde.”

“They yield!” Svala cried, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him to meet her eyes. “They’re no longer a threat!” Surprise and anger flashed across the soldier’s face before he nodded once. Clearly he knew who she was, and knew that challenging her would be futile. She let him continue on ahead, her gaze flickering to Breezehome behind her. Lydia was inside with the door barred, Svala hoped. She had told her to do so right after Balgruuf had returned Ulfric’s axe to her- she knew it would mean a declaration of war and did not want to see her only friend hurt in the crossfire. Still, Lydia was stubborn and had demanded she fight with her, regardless of her housecarl’s own neutrality in the war. She didn’t want any of her more...zealous brothers paying Lydia a visit, if she was even still inside.

Before she knew it, she was within the threshold of Dragonreach. She could hear Irileth and Avenicci urging Balgruuf not to fight, but of course, stubborn Nord that he was, his sword was already unsheathed and waiting. “Ulfric wants him alive,” Galmar had appeared on her right, when Svala couldn’t say, and she nodded grimly at him. She wouldn’t enjoy killing Balgruuf, the man had given her a fresh start after Helgen, but unbeknownst to Galmar (and Ulfric for that matter) she wouldn’t hesitate if it meant her life.

With a war cry, Galmar rushed forward and Irileth met him halfway, stunning him with a rush of lightning. Seeing Trearil in her mind, Svala roared and sliced Irileth at the calf, severing her hamstring. The dunmer fell to the ground with a cry of pain, whirling around to shoot a torrent of flames at Svala’s face. She ducked and rolled to the side quickly, narrowly avoiding the fire- she could feel the heat of the flames scorching her ear. Righting herself, she saw Galmar on his feet once more, locked in combat with Balgruuf. The Jarl was putting up a hell of a fight, and she could see (even from a distance) that Galmar was tiring himself out. She needed to help the old bastard.

Almost silently, Svala sprinted forward swinging her axe at Balgruuf’s head. The blonde Nord let out a cry as the steel of her axe connected with the gold of his circlet, sparing him. “Dragonborn! Thane! Stop this nonsense!” He shouted at her, even as he turned to attack her in kind. “Your Jarl commands you!”

For a moment, an almost imperceptible moment, Svala paused. She was reminded of her last interaction with Ulfric, how he had asked for her opinion, her name, and offered her his thanks. Thinking back, she wasn’t sure that Jarl Balgruuf had ever called her anything other than Dragonborn. He had thanked her, of course, for slaying the dragon for him, but it lacked...sincerity. She could see that now. Svala glowered at him, knocking him off balance with a swift kick to the ankle before raising her axe to his throat. “What is my name, my Jarl?” She asked mockingly.

“What...I-what?” Balgruuf sputtered, his eyes widening in both surprise and fear. “Dragonborn I-“

“My name!” Svala cried, the grip on her axe pommel tightening. Galmar was behind her now, placing a hand on her shoulder in warning. The rage was over taking her. She was beginning to lose control. “I’ll give you a hint- it’s _not_ Dragonborn.”

Balgruuf looked to Galmar for help. Seemingly finding none, the disgraced Jarl shouted, “Alright! Alright. I surrender. I surrender.” Her axe did not waver from its location against his neck. She could see beads of blood welling up against the cold steel. “Didn’t you hear me? I yield!”

“Unblooded,” Galmar warned her quietly. “Let him go now. We’ve won. It’s over.”

“You used me!” Svala shouted, unsure where this sudden rage was coming from. Hadn’t only moments ago she had reminded her comrade that killing a foe in surrender was unnecessary? Yet here she was, about to sever Balgruuf’s head from his shoulders without a care. “You don’t deserve Sovngarde,” she decided, slowly lowering the axe and punctuating her sentence by spitting in the former Jarl’s face. “You’re only a coward who sends other people to do his dirty work for him. You’re _nothing_.” Slowly, Svala’s wits returned to her. The adrenaline left her body in a whoosh, leaving her weary and aching. She could suddenly feel every injury, in full, that she had sustained from battle. Her fight was gone. “I need air,” she told Galmar before turning to make her leave from the palace.


	5. Five

“Balgruuf and his family have fled the city,” Galmar was telling Ulfric after his troops had returned to Windhelm, victorious in Whiterun. The city was now officially under Stormcloak control, giving him a chance to breath and plan next steps. “I think its clear to him that he’s no longer welcome in Skyrim.”

“Of course,” Ulfric nodded, his mind elsewhere. He noticed that Galmar had been suspiciously quiet about the Dragonborn’s involvement in the siege. “Were there any casualties?” It was odd; his stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought of her lying dead in the streets of Whiterun. Still, given Galmar’s silence, perhaps this was to be considered.

Galmar raised an eyebrow. “Of course, my lord. There’s always casualties in war. We lost about 1/3 of our men that we sent. Still,” he grinned wickedly, basking in their triumph. “Those milk drinkers lost _significantly_ more.”

Ulfric returned his smile half heartedly, before carefully asking, “Any casualties of...note?”

Understanding shone in Galmar’s eyes. Damn the man, he knew Ulfric too well at times. “The Dragonborn, eh? She’s fine. Took a few scrapes but she singlehandedly blew the drawbridge down with her thu’um- might even give you a run for your money there- and I had to stop her from nearly taking Balgruuf’s head off.” Galmar shook his head beginning to pace, something he had a habit of doing whenever he was deeply lost in thought. “She’s a good fighter, don’t get me wrong, but she’s rash. Reckless. Lets her temper control her at times. Might be more of a liability than she’s worth.”

The Jarl nodded once more, thinking this over. He himself was well versed with her temper, having it been his first _real_ impression of her- Helgen was too chaotic to count. But to turn on her former ally? This didn’t seem to match with the character of one whom defended the Dunmer so fiercely against one of her own kin. “I’l make that decision myself, my friend. I’d think I’d like to speak with her. She’s in the barracks, I presume?”

Galmar shook his head. “She refused to stay in the palace. Said she has an agreement at Candlehearth, got a room there.”

Ulfric frowned. Of course she did. This would complicate matters- the Jarl paying the Dragonborn, or any woman for that matter, a social visit was bound to stir up gossip. It would be best if he went alone and was discreet. “Thank you, Galmar. We’ll discuss next steps tomorrow. You are dismissed for the night.” He could tell that his friend was curious about Ulfric’s sudden interest in the woman, but wisely he did not comment on it. With a brisk nod, Galmar was off to his own chambers and Ulfric was ordering Jorlief to fetch a traveling cloak that would cover his face.

“We’re booked up for the night,” Elda Early Dawn, Candlehearth’s owner, barked at him the moment he walked through the door to the inn. “Might try one of the farms outside the city, sometimes they’ll let visitors stay for a bit of extra coin.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ulfric tried to keep his voice low, but alas, he could see the spark of recognition change Elda’s face. “I’m just here to visit someone.”

“Of course,” The inn proprietor said, keeping her own voice and expression neutral. Smart woman. She had caught on that Ulfric was trying his best to remain undetected. “Can you tell me who it is you’re looking to see?”

“A woman. Red hair, green eyes, scarred face.”

Elda nodded. “Room’s down the hall to your left. I trust you won’t make a fuss- I’m not really supposed to betray the trust of my clients like this. They do pay for privacy.”

Nodding, Ulfric fished out a gold piece from the pocket of his cloak before tossing it on the desk before her. “Of course. Thank you, kind lady, for your assistance.”

He had to knock twice before she answered. “Go away!” He heard her shout irritably from inside. “I’m tired.” Ulfric continued to knock. “Are you deaf? I said, go away!” Once more, he rapped upon the door. There was the sounds of shuffling from within in, along with her angry shout of, “If you’re that damn courier I’ll show you exactly _where_ Delphine can shove her-“ the door swung open.

Ulfric’s mouth instantly went dry. It was apparent she had been bathing, both from the tub of steaming water located within her room, and from her appearance as well. Her auburn hair was darker with moisture, and it was clear she had thrown a robe on without drying herself, from the way the material clung to her body, emphasizing the curves of her figure. Her breasts in particular were extremely prominent, her nipples hard and standing at attention from the sudden change in temperature. “I’m sorry,” Ulfric blurted out, trying his best to remain polite and advert his gaze, even as he could feel the space within his trousers shrink. “I did not know you were bathing,”

She seemed as shocked as he, and she said quickly, “Well I did tell you to go away. But that was before I knew, y’know, that it was _you_.”

“Yes, well,” Ulfric cleared his throat. “Might I come in? There’s some things I’d like to discuss with you. If you’re decent, that is.”

The Dragonborn- no, _Svala_ smirked at him, seemingly enjoying his discomfort now. “Why? This isn’t _decent_ enough for you?”

He groaned. “Let me in, woman. That’s an order from your Jarl.”

She laughed and pushed the door open the rest of the way, ushering him inside before locking it behind him. His mind swam with the possibilities of what exactly could happen behind a locked door, before he remembered himself. He was not a green boy, for Talos’ sake. He was the Jarl of Windhelm, the rightful High King of Skyrim. This was no time to be fantasizing about bedding the first woman to catch his eye in years. “So, Galmar informed me you were a bit...overzealous with Balgruuf.”

Her eyes darkened. “It won’t happen again,” she muttered, turning away from him. “I lost control.”

“I have no doubt,” Ulfric sat on the chair across from her bed- sitting next to her on the mattress would be far too tempting for him to handle in his current state. He did not trust himself. “I also trust it will not happen again. Dragonborn or not, my command is law, Svala, and you are respected to obey like any other recruit.”

“Even if I could out shout you?” There was that cheeky grin again, but this time it lacked any hint of malice. She was toying with him. “I’m sure your dog also told you how we got into the city.”

“He did,” Ulfric nodded, keeping his face impassive. “Though I’d advise you against using your powers in the future. Not everyone knows who you are, and it might be best to keep that concealed for now, especially where your political leanings are concerned.”

She groaned, flopping onto her stomach. “Yes, yes, understood. Now tell me, you pay all your recruits a post-battle checkup?”

He smiled slightly- she had him there. “Only the ones that are legendary. Now, Galmar said you were injured. Have you had your injuries tended to?”

Svala snorted. “I’d hardly call them injuries, and being Dragonborn does have some perks- accelerated healing is one. I can hardly feel them anymore.” Ulfric noticed, for the first time as she spoke, that there was a rather sizable gash on her thigh. The skin around it blackened and puffy- likely the weapon used to create it had been poisoned. It must’ve hurt more than she was letting on.

“Come back with me to the palace. I want Wuunferth to make that call.”

She laughed, extending her uninjured leg so that her toes brushed across his kneecap. “Why? So you can get me into your bed?” Ulfric tried to hide his shiver at the husky tone her voice had taken. “What’s wrong with mine?”

He stood suddenly, trying desperately to picture Galmar nude in order to stave off his growing arousal. Damn this woman. She was not making anything easy on him. “Of course not. I just want to make sure you don’t die to something as stupid as a festering wound, you insolent thing.”

Svala studied him for a minute before shrugging and standing herself. “Fine. Let me just dry off before we go.” Suddenly, fire crackled to life within her palms- Ulfric wasn’t aware that on top of everything else this woman was, she was also a mage- and she carefully passed them over her body, instantly drying herself. With a brief pang of disappointment, he noticed that the robes had returned to their natural, baggy state.

Putting the hood over his face once more, he walked to the door, only to notice Svala limping behind him. Wordlessly, he held out his arm to her. “It’s not a request,” he said without looking at her, knowing she would argue. “You can barely walk.”

“Fine,” she muttered, wrapping her dainty arm around his and allowing him to lead her out of the inn. The entire way back to the palace, Ulfric had a hard time thinking of anything other than how good she felt on his arm.


	6. Six

Svala was on her way to Riften.

Wuunferth had healed her leg, scolding her like a nursemaid about how bad the wound actually was. Apparently the poison used by the Imperials was stronger than she had anticipated and the wound was starting to fester. “You’re lucky Jarl Ulfric sent you to me when he did,” the old mage had told her disapprovingly. “A little bit longer and you might’ve lost the leg.” Svala had remained quiet (for once), nodding dutifully, before swiping a few draughts of peaceful sleep from Wuunferth’s own stash. She was relieved to know that her lock picking skills hadn’t left her. Hours later, after downing two of the potions, she stumbled into a spare bed on the second floor of the palace before having the best sleep she could recall in recent memory.

Until Ulfric so rudely woke her the next morning.

Well, rather, it was Jorlief on Ulfric’s behalf. A few half grumbled threats had the steward out of her sight quickly enough, but Svala knew she had to face the Jarl sometime. Truthfully, she was a bit embarrassed- when he had appeared at her room in Candlehearth, she had polished off more than few bottles of mead (in order to distract her from the throbbing pain in her leg, of course) and hadn’t expected that Jarl Ulfric, of all blasted people, would show...interest in her. To see him so flustered and aroused was something that wouldn’t leave Svala’s mind quickly, although she tried desperately to purge the images of his blackened pupils and the rather sizable bulge in his trousers. Sure, Ulfric was handsome- every female in Skyrim would probably jump at the chance to warm his bed- but Svala did not have time for romance or bedding, _especially_ with the man who would become High King of Skyrim. It was too messy, too complicated.

That wasn’t to say that flirting with him hadn’t been a bit of fun, or that she hadn’t been supremely disappointed when he had turned her down (even if he thought her joking).

She had groaned at herself, at her stupid impulsivity internally before reporting directly to the source of her embarrassment and trouble. If Ulfric had any thoughts on her behavior from the previous night he didn’t show it, instead keeping his face as cool and impassive as always. “We’ve driven the Imperials out of Whiterun. This is good. Very good,” he told her without really looking at her, all business once more. A tiny flame of rage flickered within Svala’s gut. Had he he been toying with her as well? Trying to seduce her into securing her loyalty, her power? “We now control the center. It’s a powerful position, one I aim to keep.” Ulfric continued on, oblivious to the dark thoughts Svala’s mind had taken. “We’ll call you Ice-Veins now, for the thick blood of our land has seeped into your heart. Take this as well,” he handed her an ebony sword, flickering with an enchantment of the blaze. Svala could feel the fire radiating within the weapon’s core. It was a fine piece, and she had received a promotion as well, but yet Svala still felt hollow.

“Do you require anything else of me, my Jarl?” she had asked him woodenly, feeling foolish once more. She had gone to see him trying to rid herself of thoughts of him, reminding herself how bad of an idea lusting for him would be. Yet upon his rejection, she could feel an odd coldness close around her heart.

“I suspect you’ll be of greater use to us with greater freedom, so you’re free to engage the Imperials as you see fit. But I also want you to find our hidden camp in Falkreath. Galmar will have special tasks for you, and will need you when we liberate the capital.” With that, Ulfric dismissed her with a simple, “Go with the gods,” and Svala was off.

But not to Falkreath- she had no intention of finding any hidden camp. Well, at least, not right away. Delphine had become rather...insistent with her correspondence, and there were only so many couriers Svala could threaten to maim before she would have to start making good on her promises. It seemed answering one of Delphine’s many (many) letters would be the easier option.

_Dragonborn,_

_Might I remind you just how serious the current situation is becoming. More and more dragons appear in the sky each day, and since you kicked the hornets’ nest our mutual enemy is at our door. E waits for you in Riften. I have a contact waiting for you there, a man named Brynjolf, who might be able to tell you where E is located. Make haste. We will not be able to weather this threat forever._

_-D_

Svala reread the latest of Delphine’s letters before incinerating it in her grip. She had every intention of fulfilling her destiny as Dragonborn (whatever that meant), but couldn’t very well do so while there was a civil war raging on, playing directly into the Thalmor’s plot. The thing about dragons was that they were on nobody’s side but their own, and a little equal opportunity chaos was a good thing, in Svala’s opinion. If Delphine wanted her geriatric friend in Riverwood so quickly she should have made the journey herself, Svala surmised as she stood before the gates to Riften. She was sick of serving others, particularly those ungrateful for her help.

“Before I let you in, you gotta pay the visitor’s tax,” one of the guards at the gate told her gruffly.

Svala barked a harsh laugh. “Or I could gut you and open the gate myself.”

“Easy now, keep your voice down,” the guard backtracked quickly in hushed tones. “Don’t want to let everyone hearing our little scheme, do we? Go on in.”

With a curt nod, Svala was back within the city where she had spent most of her formative years. After her parents had been killed by bandits and she had been taken as a slave by her parents’ murderers, she had traveled with them to Riften when they had needed to resupply themselves for their continuing journeys. She was lucky that the Guild had taken notice of her attempting to lose the bandit leader but pickpocketing him in the Bee and Bard, after spiking his ale with a paralysis potion she had stolen from the marketplace. A certain ginger Nord had approached her then, apparently impressed by her boldness and skill, and offered her a place in the Thieves Guild as his protege. Svala had lived with them for 8 years until she was captured by the Thalmor and deported to Cyrodiil. Just the smell of the city itself (fish and piss and sickly sweet mead) brought her back to that time.

Finding Brynjolf would be easy- Svala remembered all his usual haunts. She first checked the Bee and Bard, and then his stall in the market, before finally resigning that she would have to make her way down to the Ragged Flagon. Svala had saved that particular location for last, not knowing how well her fellow Guild members would take to her sudden reappearance. She was only glad that she had the foresight to wear her hide armor rather than her Stormcloak uniform.

“Little Lala? Is that you?”

Her hand had been on the door handle to the Flagon when she heard that familiar roguish timbre behind her. Instantly, Svala’s body went hot then cold. She turned slowly, feeling like a youth once more. “Hey, Bryn. It’s me.”


	7. Seven

She had been gone for weeks. Ulfric sent word to Galmar whenever possible, asking if he had seen her at the Falkreath camp, but the answer remained the same- Ice-Veins had never turned up.

Ulfric was torn between fury and anxiety. He did not want to believe that she would just disappear on him (no, his _cause_ ), without so even a word. Something dire must’ve happened to her; had she been captured? Injured? _Killed_? The possibilities kept him up at night.

Unfortunately, the Dragonborn’s sudden disappearance wasn’t the only thing about her keeping Ulfric awake. Whenever he tried to sleep, he was assaulted with the image of her pert breasts through her robes, her mischievous green eyes sparkling as she invited him into her bed. Had she been merely joking, or was there any truth to her proposition? What if he had accepted? Thrown her on her back, climbed atop of her, removed her wet robes, placed his mouth-

Ulfric groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. He could feel his cock throbbing once more. No matter how many times he took himself in hand, it was never enough. The brief flash of his satisfaction would only be replaced with a longing he had no right to possess; Svala wasn’t _his_. For Talos’ sake, he didn’t even _know_ the woman that well, not to mention the fact that she was the _Dragonborn of legend!_ Her allegiance to his cause was too valuable to jeopardize over the lust he had for her. He had sworn to himself that going forward he would treat her as any other soldier and keep his distance. Although he was slightly stung by the cold demeanor she possessed the last time he had seen her, when he had dubbed her Ice-Veins (how fitting), Ulfric was optimistic that it would only make it easier for him to purge her from his mind.

He had been wrong.

Following her departure, a slew of whores had found their way into the Jarl’s bed. Ulfric was not so blind as to not recognize that he could easily have any woman he wanted (save one, perhaps), but given how the war was progressing he did not want to entertain any notions about making a woman his queen. A whore served one purpose and one purpose only, and that was all Ulfric required.

Release.

The woman he had chosen that night (was her name Hillyea? Kirshe? Ulfric couldn’t recall) was currently riding him like a stallion, moaning gratuitously and pressing her generous breasts in his face. He sucked on her nipples dutifully, running his thumb along her clit and listening to her shriek in pleasure. The sound went straight to his cock, and his mind once more drifted to Svala. He imaged her in the whore’s place, her intense green gaze fixed upon him as she ground upon his cock to find her pleasure. He wondered if her thu’um would be triggered by her orgasm- he _ached_ to make her cum that hard. His cock throbbed at the thought. 

“My Jarl, my _Jarl_...!” The whore was chanting breathlessly, and Ulfric had had enough. “Quiet,” he rasped, clapping a hand over her mouth and flipping her onto her back before driving into her mercilessly. She screamed into his palm. Svala would call him by his name, or nothing at all- that he was sure of. She wouldn’t submit to him easily, and oh, wasn’t that half the fun? He would have to _make_ her. He could tie her to the posts of his bed, force his cock in her smart mouth until she drooled, bring her to the edge countless times until she sobbed for him-

Ulfric came with a groan. When he returned to his senses, he pulled out of the spent whore and turned onto his side. “Your payment is on the dresser. I trust on your discretion in this matter,” he muttered to her. He didn’t want to look at her, he didn’t want to shatter the illusion he had carefully crafted around himself.

* * *

Brynjolf the same as Svala remembered him. Even the tell tale signs of age only enhanced his rugged masculinity and made him more attractive, if it were possible. There were more lines around his eyes now, and some grey mingled amongst the red of his hair, but he still heartbreakingly handsome. He still managed to stop her heart with just a smile. Perhaps no amount of time would change that.

Brynjolf. Her first love.

“Lala, you’re alive.” He choked out before stumbling forward and wrapping her in a tight embrace. He smelled like ale and leather and mist and _home_. Tears sprung to her eyes as she buried her face in his hair. “I thought I’d never see you again, lass.”

“Thought?” Svala asked thickly, pulling away so that she could look him in the eye. “Or hoped?”

“No,” Brynjolf’s own blue eyes glimmered overly bright with tears as he roughly grabbed her by the chin. “I would _never_ betray you, Svala. I’d rather die. You are _family_ , lass.”

“You didn’t look for me either,” she couldn’t help it, she could feel the tears slide down her face. “I _needed_ you, Bryn. I needed _all_ of you! Do you know what they did to me? What I had to endure??” She could feel Trearil’s hands running over her, the kiss of his blade, the burn as he-

“Lass, you don’t understand,” his hands were on her shoulders, gripping her tightly, bringing her back. “Mercer...divines, Svala, Mercer _killed_ Gallus. He blamed Karliah for it all, she spent years on the run from us. If _anyone_ handed you over to them, anyone, it would’ve been him.”

“Would have? Is he dead?”

“Aye,” Brynjolf gazed at his feet, and for a moment all was silent except for the steady drip of sewage on the cobble stones. “I’m the Guildmaster now, Lala. Karliah is my second. And you have to believe me, I _did_ look for you. Every second I could spare, and when I couldn’t, Karliah was. She’s in Cyrodiil now even.”

Svala couldn’t speak, her throat was constricting too tightly with the need to sob. She had carried the weight of Brynjolf’s betrayal for years. She had given everything she possessed to that man- her heart and her innocence included. The day he had taken her maidenhead she had worn an amulet of Mara, something she had bought specifically for the occasion. He had laughed and told her that he “wasn’t the marrying type”. Heartbroken, she spent the night in the Bee and Bard, not wanting to face him in the cistern, and the following morn found herself within Thalmor custody. She had always thought that it was some kind of deal he made with them, in order to protect himself or the Guild. She had never imagined anything like this. “I can’t do this right now. I’m here on business.”

“Business?” Brynjolf chuckled at her, his fingers brushing away a lock of her hair loose from its single braid down her back. “You’ve been gone for _three years_ and you only come back _on business?”_

Svala shoved him, hard. “Yes. Business. I’m looking for an old man. He’s supposed to be living in the Rataway. Goes by Esbern. Ever heard of him?”

“Aye,” Brynjolf’s shit eating grin was only growing. She wanted to punch him. “I may have heard of him. But nothing comes for free, does it Lala?”

Svala groaned- she was afraid it would come to this. It was Brynjolf, after all. “Name your price, you bastard.”

“Spend the night with me,” Brynjolf’s lips graced her ear as she felt his hot breath ghost over her. “Nothing naughty, I’m a gentleman after all, just a night to reconnect between friends.” She bit back a whimper, feeling her body erupt into goosebumps, arousal coiling low in her belly. Ever since Ulfric had been in her room she had found herself...frustrated. Being so close to Brynjolf, the possibility of his touch...it took all of her self control to pull herself away once more.

“ _After_ I find Esbern,” she agreed sternly. “And nothing naughty. I still have questions.”


	8. Eight

“Go away!”

“Esbern! Open the door! I’m a friend!” Svala bellowed, continuing to beat upon the door. Brynjolf chuckled behind her, shaking his head. “You know, instead of laughing you could always help.”

“Where’s that gift of gab, little Lala?” Brynjolf was laughing harder now, clutching his sides. She scowled. She had always hated that nickname; Bryn had taken to calling her ‘Little Lala’ when she first trained under him. He said she was too mouthy to be a good thief, constantly making too much noise and talking at the wrong times. He had been made to eat those words, however, when her smart mouth and quick mind had gotten them out of more than a few scrapes. She settled for ignoring Brynjolf in the present and growling, pounding on the door even harder.

“What?! No, that’s not me. I’m not Esbern. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“For Talos’ sake, Delphine sent me!” She was seriously beginning to lose patience with this man. Using her thu’um to knock the door down and pummeling the old man into submission before tying him up and _carrying_ him to Riverwood was starting to sound like a better and better plan.

“Delphine? How do you...so you’ve finally found her, and she led you to me. And here I am like a rat in a trap.” Svala bit back a groan. What had Delphine told her to mention? She wracked her brain trying to recall... “Delphine said to remember the 30th of Frostfall.”

A pause. “Ah. Indeed, indeed. I do remember. So Delphine really is alive, then? You’d better come in then, and tell me how you found me and what you want.” Both Svala and Brynjolf exhaled deeply in relief at that. There was the sound of locks and latches being undone, all the while accompanied by Esbern’s muttering, until finally the door swung open. “Oh!” The old man said in surprise, clearly not expecting to see Brynjolf hulking there. “I didn’t know there was someone else with you. Can he be trusted?’

Svala nodded. “I trust him with my life,” she told Esbern evenly, watching Brynjolf’s expression carefully out of the corner of her eye. She could see he was startled by her admission, but she also saw the small smile he tried to hide. “Now can we come in?”

Esbern’s “home” was small and cramped, filled from floor to ceiling with various old books and spell tomes. Bottles of empty potions and elixirs rolled around near her feet, and the entire space smelled like the sewage of the Rataway. Clearly, she and Bryn were some of the first people to step inside, other than Esbern himself, in gods knew how long. “So Delphine keeps up the fight, after all these years. I thought she’d have realized it’s hopeless by now. I tried to tell her, years ago...”

“The Thalmor have found you. We have to get out of here.” Svala cut him off, her hand already going to the hilt of her sword. How true her statement was she had no way of telling, but that didn’t mean she was in any mood to stick around longer than she had to to find out.

“So what?” The old mage shrugged. She wanted to throttle him. “The end is upon us. I may as well die here as anywhere else. I’m tired of running.”

“Lass, are you sure you want to be wasting your time with him?” Brynjolf asked her under his breath. “I don’t think he’s...all there, if you catch my drift.”

“What do you mean, ‘the end is upon us’?” She asked Esbern, ignoring Brynjolf once more.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet? What more needs to happen before you all wake up and see what’s going on?” Esbern was pacing, his voice rising as he continued his tirade. “Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said! The Dragon from the dawn of time who devours the souls of the dead! No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him. I tried to tell them, they wouldn’t listen. Fools! It’s all come true...all I could do was watch our doom approach...”

“The end of times?” Brynjolf laughed. “Come now, old timer, let’s just relax. It’s been a while since you’ve been on the surface; things aren’t nearly _that_ bad up there.”

“He’s right,” Svala shook her head, thinking of the large black dragon she had seen at Helgen. Alduin. It had to be him. There were twice as many dragons appearing every day since she had encountered him. “Could the Dragonborn defeat Alduin, Esbern?”

“The Dragonborn is the _only_ one who can stop Alduin,” Esbern replied solemnly. “But unfortunately for us, no Dragonborn has been known for centuries. It seems the gods have grown tired of us. They’ve left us to our fate, as the plaything of Alduin the World-Eater.”

“What if...” Svala wrung her hands in anxiety. She hadn’t wanted it to come out like this, she had wanted to tell Brynjolf privately, after Esbern had been sorted. But with every second that passed, it appeared as though there were no other option, and the more time that passed gave the Thalmor ample time to close in on them... “What if I told you _I_ was the Dragonborn?”

“What?” Esbern’s head snapped back up and Brynjolf echoed him with a much louder exclamation. “You’re...can it really be true? Dragonborn? Then...then there is hope! The gods have not abandoned us! We must...we must...we must go, quickly now. Take me to Delphine. We have much to discuss.”

In a flurry of movement the old man began to pack while Brynjolf grabbed her arm tightly, pulling her just out of ear shot. “When were you going to tell me, lass?” He all but growled at her, his eyes shining with anger. He was always so so sexy when he was riled up... “The _Dragonborn_? You’re the _Dragonborn_?”

“I was going to tell you tonight,” Svala argued in a whisper, monitoring Esbern at the same time. Anxiety gnawed at her. They really needed to get going. “But Esbern needed more convincing so I had no choice. Please, Brynjolf, I’ll fill you in on everything later but I really think we should leave. I don’t have a good feeling.”

“I completely agree!” Esbern materialized between them carrying a few belongings in his knapsack. “We should make haste to Delphine. Let’s move.”

They had barely made it out of Esbern’s room when she heard them. Thalmor soldiers. Svala held out her arm to halt her companions and raised a finger to her lips. “You’re sure she came through here?” That damn Altmer accent always sent chills down her spine. They began to creep down deeper into the Rataway, remaining undetected, when Esbern lost his footing on a loose cobblestone. He fell to his knees with a surprised cry of pain.

Shit.

“There she is!” One of the Thalmor cried, rushing toward Svala with their blade drawn. She whirled out of reach, brandishing her own weapon, striking them across the chest. The soldier stepped backwards, stunned, giving her the opportunity to slide her blade under the elven armor and between their ribs. Esbern had conjured a frost atronach and was using it to fend off two soldiers at once, while Brynjolf had managed to down a few of his own. Their odds were improving by the minute, though it did little to quell Svala’s anxiety. Grabbing the fallen soldier’s sword, Svala jumped back in the fray, sliding the sword Ulfric had given her through the neck of one of the Thalmor attacking Esbern, while driving the elven sword into the Altmer’s leg. The other fell as an icicle impaled him through the helmet, and there was the unmistakable sound of bones cracking as Brynjolf bested his opponent from behind them.

The battle was over as quick as it had begun, but Svala wasn’t finished.

Calling upon all the magicka she possessed, she resurrected the Thalmor agent she had just killed. An eerie blue glow encompassed the elf as it resurrected, staring blankly at Svala with a gaping hole in its neck. “Who sent you?” She growled, keeping her focus and concentration sharp. “What do you want with me?”

“Justiciar Trearil Granor sends his regards,” the dead Altmer spoke in an echoing, hollow voice. “He will be visiting you soon, Dragonborn.”

With bile rising in her throat, Svala closed her fists. The dead soldier dissolved before them into a pile of glowing ash.

* * *

They had made it outside of Riften, barely outside the city gates, when she felt the ground tremble. “Go back to Riften,” she told Brynjolf without looking at him. “ _Now.”_

_“_ Fat chance,” Brynjolf scoffed. “I lost you once, lass, I’m not about to let you slip away again.”

There was a roar, far off in the distance. There wasn’t much time before the beast would appear. “Brynjolf, I promise that I will write to you and let you know everything, but _you need to go back_. There’s a-“

“Dragon!” Esbern cried, staring at the sky with an equal look of wonder and terror. “Too late,” Svala spat at the thief before sprinting towards the threat. She could see the dragon was readying an attack, flying lower to the ground, its mouth opening. “ _Wuld Nah Kest!”_ She shouted, using the force of the whirlwind sprint to launch herself onto the dragon’s snout. She could hear Brynjolf’s cry of her name, Esbern’s horrified gasp, but it meant little to her.

She was the fucking Dragonborn, after all, and this was her duty.

The dragon thrashed its head wildly, trying to buck her off. She held onto its scaly head, digging her fingernails into its hide. She unsheathed the dagger from her thigh, taking a risk to free her right hand, before wrapping her thighs around the top of the dragon’s jaw and plunging the dagger into its eye. Its roar of pain was deafening, and its wings beat wildly, sending them spinning. Svala could feel her grip slipping as they spiraled through the air, the wind whipping her face as the dragon thrashed. She twisted the dagger deeper into the beast’s skull until she could feel the soft squish of the brain. The dragon let out one final roar as it careened toward the earth at an alarming rate. Right before impact, Svala leapt gracefully from her perch on its snout, landing in a perfect crouch. She wiped her dagger on her armor before placing it back in its sheath.

“All hail the Dragonborn!” Esbern cried, falling to his knees. Brynjolf appeared to be too stunned to speak.

“If you thought that was impressive, give it a minute,” Svala smirked, her heart beating wildly with the adrenaline of battle. She watched as the skin of the dragon disintegrated, its soul glowing a brilliant gold as it became mist. She could feel it calling to her, singing to her blood, as the mist swirled around her, filling her, consuming her. The rush of knowledge and raw power was intoxicating. She felt dizzy, lightheaded.

“Esbern,” Svala said after a moment of deep breathing, adjusting to the new dragon soul she now carried inside her. “You’ll be continuing to Riverwood without me. If you don’t feel safe traveling alone, go to the Ragged Flagon in the Rataway. Ask for Delvin, and tell him ‘Little Lala is cashing in on your debt’. Delphine runs an inn in the town. You’ll find her there.”

“But Dragonborn I really think-“

“Go,” she said, her voice like steel. Esbern met her gaze and went silent, nodding. “I will send word for you once I arrive,” he said before hastily departing.

“Lass, what just-“

Svala was on him before he could finish speaking. Brynjolf let out a noise of surprise from deep in his throat as her lips captured his own. It was as though she were fighting again, all teeth and tongue and spit. She bit down on his lip and he gasped, his hand going to her hair and pulling, _hard_. Svala moaned, wrapping a leg around his waist and pushing her hips to hers. “Fuck me, Bryn,” she gasped in his ear, raking her nails (still crusty with dragon blood and scales) down the sensitive skin of neck. He shuddered and groaned low, pressing his forehead against her own. “Lass, let’s slow down for a minute. It’s been 3 years and I-“

“ _Fus,”_ she whispered, the slight force knocking him backwards onto the grass. They were in the middle of a field, with nothing but wild flowers and dragon bones to see them. The sun was just dipping low past the horizon bathing them in pink and purple light. “Bryn, please. I _need_ this. I need _you_.” She straddled his lap, feeling his hardness pressing into her from underneath his armor. Brynjolf gasped, his hips bucking into her reflexively. Not giving him time to try and reconsider once more, she took off her cuirass, leaving her breasts bare in front of him.

“Now lass, that’s not playing fair,” Brynjolf chuckled huskily at her, his eyes half lidded and dark with lust. Svala placed a hand on his scalp again and pushed him to her breast, moaning as his mouth found her nipple. His tongue lapped around the sensitive skin of her breast, his teeth scraping over the nub. She moaned again, feeling herself grow wetter. Struggling to remain both on top of Brynjolf and to free herself from the lower half of her armor, she very nearly toppled onto the soft earth. Brynjolf’s laugh was in her ear again, smooth and rich like chocolate. “Allow me to give you some assistance.” His nimble hands drifted to her waist, pulling off the last piece of armor. She laid bare on top of him, slightly self conscious. Her body had changed quite a bit since the last time they had laid together.

“Your turn,” she muttered, refusing to watch Brynjolf gaze upon her nakedness. Rushing, she helped him strip out of his Guild armor, moaning in delight as she felt their skin touch. The feeling of Brynjolf’s hardness against her naked thigh was almost too much for Svala to bear; she was so hot and so wet and so ready, she slung her leg over his own and pressed herself down upon him, her eyes rolling back in her head to feel him fill her. “ _Yes.”_

_“_ Oh fuck, Lala,” Brynjolf moaned, his hands going to her hips and gripping her roughly as he began to move inside her. She gyrated in tandem on top of him, throwing her head back in ecstasy. “Little Lala your body is better than Dibella’s, oh _lass_...” She moved faster, feeling her release approaching faster than usual. She gripped his hips tighter with her thighs, now pressing her forehead to his. Their noses brushed, their hot breath mingling on her lips.

“ _Fuck me,_ Bryn,” Svala groaned, feeling desperate. It wasn’t enough- she needed faster, harder. She needed to feel filled, _consumed_. For the briefest of moments, she imagined a larger set of hands on her hips, a larger man beneath her, with hair the color of wheat and stormy blue eyes...

Brynjolf spun them so quickly it sole her breath as she landed on her back. He hoisted her legs on his shoulders before pulling out of her completely and saying with a roguish grin, “If you insist, love,” before snapping his hips back to hers with all the force he could muster. Svala screamed in pleasure, her eyes rolling back in her head. Still, there was a nagging feeling within her that craved _more_. She wanted to be stuffed so full, so completely filled, that she would feel the ache for _days_.

Ulfric’s cock was probably massive.

The thought alone made her so wet she could feel it trickle down her thighs. Brynjolf gasped, feeling this new development too, and took it as an encouragement to go faster. “Close,” Svala gasped, keeping her legs tight around his waist. Brynjolf nodded in agreement, his shaggy red hair tickling her face as he moaned, “ _Oh fuck,_ Svala, _yes_...”

She came with a silent scream, her back arching and her body going taut. Brynjolf finished seconds later, moaning so loudly an elk in the nearby forrest let out an answering sound. Svala giggled, feeling drunk and sated. Brynjolf pulled out of her, pushing her onto his chest as she yawned. His hand stroked her messy hair, his fingertips tracing patterns on her skin.

Svala slept and knew no more.


	9. Nine

Ulfric had never written so many letters in his life.

Galmar had all but bitten his head off in his latest response, assuring (threatening) Ulfric that if Ice-Veins ever decided to turn up in Falkreath, he would be notified immediately. Next Ulfric had tried to contact her housecarl in Whiterun, who had been equally unhelpful.

_Jarl Ulfric,_

_The last I heard from my thane, she was in your service, sacking my city. If you have misplaced her, that is simply not my problem. I spend my days now helping my people rebuild the devastation your soldiers have caused._

_-Lydia, Housecarl of Breezehome_

Just as insolent as the thane she served, apparently. Ulfric had torn the letter to shreds immediately after reading it.

For a while after there were no more letters. Ulfric had run out of leads and rocks to check under. It seemed as though Svala had completely disappeared and would only return when she wanted to. Meanwhile, the parade of whores outside Ulfric’s chamber nightly continued, to the point where Wuunferth had snidely asked his Jarl if he needed any stamina or disease curing potions. Jorlief at least feigned ignorance, though Ulfric knew the man well enough to know he was concerned about this new pattern of behavior.

Then he heard about the dragon.

Ulfric had taken to drinking nightly in Candlehearth (disguised of course) in case Svala returned to her room there. Elda had left it unoccupied for her (he was to understand through crosstalk that she had left the innkeep a sizable amount of gold to do so) and the mead helped Ulfric find some sort of peace when sex could not. It was one of those occasions when he had heard some travelers from the Rift raving about how a dragon had been spotted near Riften, only when the guard assembled to fight it, it disappeared. “They found the bones in a _field_ , completely deserted!” One of the travelers exclaimed. “Someone must have brought it down singlehandedly, but who could do such a thing?”

Ulfric’s head had shot up. He knew exactly who could.

The next morn, he sent for Ralof to meet with him in the Palace of the Kings. Ralof was a good soldier, and more importantly, he had been with both Ulfric _and_ Svala in Helgen. He would know better than anyone who she was and what she was capable of. Ralof could bring her back to him.

“Ralof,” Ulfric said as the blonde Nord appeared before him. “Do you remember our...detour, in Helgen?”

Ralof nodded with a chuckle. “Of course, my Jarl. Pretty hard to forget seeing a big black dragon.”

“It’s not the dragon I’m interested in,” Ulfric dismissed the notion with a wave of his large hand. “Do you remember the woman who was in the carriage with us? Red hair? Scarred face?”

Ralof’s eyes widened with recognition. “Aye! Svala! We escaped together after we were separated, my Jarl. I took her to Riverwood to meet my sister. I even told her to come here to join our cause!”

Ulfric paused at that, scratching his chin, deep in thought. Had that been why she had been so eager to join him? Some sort of...companionship between her and Ralof? Were they lovers? His stomach dropped at the thought. “Yes, well, it seems she took your advice. She is now known as Ice-Veins, and is, at the moment, missing.”

“Missing?” Ralof’s face scrunched in confusion. “Is she in danger? I can’t imagine Svala not being able to take care of herself, not from what I’ve seen her do, so I wouldn’t worry my-“

“I’m not worried,” Ulfric snapped. He wasn’t. She was fine. She was just toying with him...wasn’t she? “I just need to know that she has not fallen into enemy hands. I want you to find her, bring her back to report to me directly. Tell no one else of this, and if you do well, I will name you captain.”

The Nord’s eyes lit up at the mention of a promotion. If Ulfric had any doubts about Ralof following orders, they evaporated at the sight. “Yes, my Jarl!”

“Talos guide you,” Ulfric dismissed him, trying to keep the gnawing jealousy at bay. No matter how hard he tried, he could not erase the image of Ralof and Svala, together, from his mind.

* * *

Svala was being followed.

She fumed, silently, while watching her tail from the corner of her eye. She had been so careful! She had left Brynjolf while he slept, leaving a note by his side and then sneaking to the Riften stables to steal a horse. She had even managed to swipe a set of elven armor, ditching her old armor in a pond, to avoid Thalmor detection. She had (albeit stupidly) assumed that if she dressed like an elf that she would be camouflaged, and had carried this false hope all the way to Falkreath. The trip took her twice as long as usual since she had to avoid all the main roads and travel the woods.

And yet they had still managed to find her.

Trearil would _never_ let her go, she realized that now. Her fingertips traced the scar on her face as she bitterly choked down the rest of her mead. He was the only one who had always managed to be one step ahead of her, and it now, it seemed, her luck had run out. The only thing that gave her some small comfort was that Brynjolf was no where near her and would be spared.

She just wished she could see him one last time to apologize.

Standing and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, Svala strode towards the door of the Dead Man’s Drink. If she was going out, she wasn’t going without a fight. If they tried to take her inside Falkreath hold, there was a chance the guard would take notice before the Thalmor succeeded. She waited on the cobblestone road outside the tavern as the man following her slipped out as well, several paces behind. Pretending to be drunk (well, drunker than she actually was), she stumbled forward into a crouch. Her shadow, taking his advantage, crept up behind her. Quick as a flash, Svala spun around and held her dagger, stained dark with dragon blood, against his throat. “Who else is with you? Tell them to come out or lose your head.” She growled menacingly.

The man’s face shown white in the moonlight, his cowl falling askew. “Svala, don’t, it’s me-“

“ _Ralof?”_ She gasped, releasing him from her hold. He crumpled to a heap in the dirt, breathing heavily. “What are you _doing_?!”

“Jarl Ulfric’s orders,” The blonde man grinned, standing up and brushing himself off. “It’s good to see you again, Svala! I didn’t know you joined the Stormcloaks! I thought sure I would’ve seen you out there by now.”

Svala scowled. Of _course_ Ulfric would send someone after her, that impatient ass. All his talk of “trust” and “good feelings” and he was sending _spies_ after her. As if she would desert! She had taken Galmar’s stupid oath to him, after all, and her word _meant_ something. “He doesn’t trust me.” She muttered darkly to herself.

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Ralof said uncertainly, placing a friendly hand on her shoulder. “I think he was...well...worried about you, Svala. He seemed tenser than usual, and that’s saying something for Ulfric.”

Svala snorted at that. _Ulfric_ worried about _her?_ No. Perhaps he was worried about losing the Dragonborn, and what it would mean for his war, but it wasn’t as if he cared about the person attached to the title. “Tell him I’m fine, Ralof. He wanted me to go to the Falkreath camp and I’m on my way now, so he can relax.” Was she? She hadn’t really considered _where_ exactly she had been headed until the words came out of her mouth. Hmm. Maybe she _was_ a deserter. But that didn’t mean she would betray Ulfric or the Stormcloaks either.

Ralof shook his head. “Actually, Svala, he wants you to report directly to him now. I’m supposed to escort you. Just like old times, eh?” He was grinning at her once more. She could feel herself begin to smile, as well, reluctantly. Ralof was like a puppy; it was impossible to stay annoyed with him.

She ended up relenting and then they were on their way back to Windhelm.

Svala had always liked Ralof- he was a good part of why she was still alive. Without his help escaping Helgen, divines only knew what would have became of her. Not only had he helped to save her life, but he had brought her back with him to Riverwood, introduced him to his sister and her family, given her lodging and food and supplies for her journey to Whiterun. Kindness was so hard to come by in the world that Svala tried to repay it whenever possible. She supposed holding a blade to Ralof’s neck wasn’t the best start, but then again she also hadn’t realized it was him. At least she hadn’t stabbed him.

Ralof was animatedly describing to her his exploits in the Stormcloak army thus far, and was currently in the process of explaining a quest that Galmar had a small team embark on shortly before she enlisted, in some Nordic ruin to find a crown. “We had cleared the damn place of Imperial trash before we got to this crazy door. I thought Galmar’s yelling was going to cause the whole place to cave in, but no matter what we did, the damn thing wouldn’t open. We were at it for days before he finally admitted it was a loss and made us return to camp.”

“Crazy door?” Svala hummed to herself. She remembered a similar door when she was asked to fetch the dragonstone from Bleak Falls Barrow. “Did he have the dragon claw to open it?”

“Dragon claw?” Ralof shook his head rapidly. “No, I would’ve remembered something like that. There were three holes in the smallest circle on the door though...that was probably the key to open it!”

She smirked to herself. Maybe there was a way to soften Ulfric’s rage upon their reunion...maybe a peace offering she could procure for him. Even if she couldn’t find the missing claw to open the door, she remembered Mercer had taught her a puzzle door’s weakness. “Say Ralof, think we have time for a detour? I don’t suppose you remember where this ruin was...”


	10. Ten

Ulfric was awoken by soft knocking upon the door. He groaned in response and rolled over, trying to fall back into sleep. He had been dreaming of Svala, again, (lately he dreamt of little else) and his cock was throbbing uncomfortably. “Whatever it is it can wait.”

“My Jarl?” Jorlief’s voice came hesitantly. “You told me to alert you the moment Ice-Veins returned with Ralof. They’ve just entered the palace, my Jarl.”

All remnants of sleep vanished from Ulfric immediately. So Ralof had succeeded? It had taken him longer than Ulfric had anticipated, but he was a man of his word and so Ralof would be rewarded. Svala on the other hand...Ulfric dressed in a rush, trying to contain the nervous (excited) energy he was currently bombarded with. Ultimately he settled for throwing on a heavy cloak to hide his rather sizable erection and quickly ran a comb through his unruly hair before all but sprinting to the throne room.

When he saw her, standing in the middle of the great hall, with the Jagged Crown (of all things) nestled atop her auburn waves, his anger vanished almost immediately. She looked exhausted; there were dark circles visible even underneath her black war paint, and it was clear she had not been eating regularly. Still, there was a smug smirk on her face as she faced him with her hands on her hips, dressed in bloodied elven armor. “I brought you a gift,” was all she said.

Ulfric descended onto his throne, his legs spread, more for comfort than anything else. He carefully watched her face, watched her eyes flicker to his groin ever so quickly before they settled back on his eyes. Her front teeth scraped against her bottom lip. The small gesture flooded Ulfric with heat and he could feel his neglected cock twitch. She hadn’t done anything but _look_ at him, for the love of Talos, and he was nearly ready to spill in his pants like a green youth. Pathetic. “So you have. I suppose I owe Galmar a drink after all.”

“What about me?” She asked him cheekily. “I’m the one that did the heavy lifting.”

“She was magnificent, Jarl Ulfric,” Ralof chimed in, seemingly forgotten although he was standing next to her. “She killed so many dragur and skeletons that you could’ve built a mountain from the bones. Barely needed my help at all.”

“Is that so?” Ulfric raised an eyebrow at his newest captain, trying to keep his attention on Svala limited. “Bone-Breaker seems to be a fitting name for you now. We shall call you thus.” Svala nodded but remained silent, clearly waiting for him to continue with suspicious curiosity. “This war demands so much from us, and we give all we have to it and the people. I need capable and loyal warriors close at hand, so I have taken the liberty to move your belongings into a spare room here.”

“You _what_?” She hissed angrily, her fury coloring her pale face pink. “I told Elda-“

Truthfully, Ulfric had had to pay _double_ of what the Dragonborn had been paying her for the innkeeper to agree for him to move Svala’s meager belongings into the Palace of the Kings. Still, as far as he were concerned, knowing her whereabouts and having her under the same roof as him was worth any amount of gold. But he would be damned if he let her know that. “It is done. You will remain in the palace until further notice and will serve the citizens of Windhelm as an officer of my personal guard. You will be given free rein of the city and the palace, but are currently prohibited from venturing outside of Windhelm.”

“That’s not what I signed up for.” She raised her chin at him defiantly. He wished they were alone; how tempting it would be to bring her to her knees in front of his throne and quiet her by gagging her with his cock. Ulfric breathed deeply through his nose, trying to keep his composure. “If you’re upset about why I was gone for so long I can-“

“Svala, this is a great honor.” Ralof interrupted her, trying to calm her growing irritation with Ulfric. “Even some of the more seasoned soldiers never get an opportunity like this. You should be grateful.” Momentarily Ulfric toyed with the idea of granting Ralof another promotion for his words alone as he saw the affect they had on Svala. Her eyes narrowed as she faced him, her body vibrating with her rage.

“Grateful?” She laughed harshly. “Why would I be _grateful_ to be a prisoner?”

“You are not a prisoner,” Ulfric spat, finally feeling his anger finally outweigh his desire. “You are my guest. If you would like I could move you to the dungeon in a damp cell if you would truly like to be treated as a prisoner. Given your lax interpretations of my orders as of late, _Bone-Breaker_ , I would listen to Captain Ralof if I were in your position. Not many soldiers defy me and are rewarded for it. I trust you, my kindness will not be extended further, as I am _not_ known for my patience.”

She looked from him, to Ralof, to Ulfric once more. Seemingly finding no other recourse, Svala flung the crown from her head onto the floor, where it skittered to a stop in front of Ulfric’s feet. The crash was deafening in the late night quiet of the palace. “You’re welcome, _my Jarl_.” Bone-Breaker all but _snarled_ at him before stalking off somewhere, probably searching for her things. He could hear her stomping footsteps bouncing around off the stone walls of the palace. Ulfric chose to ignore it. “Captain Ralof, you will leave for Hjaalmarch camp tomorrow morn. Notify Galmar that Bone-Breaker will be in the palace with me until further notice and to have any tasks he would have given to her reassigned to you personally.”

“Aye, my Jarl!” Ralof saluted him before departing. Once he was gone, Ulfric breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Jorlief had already gone, probably to direct Svala in the direction of her new chambers, leaving him alone in the cavernous great hall. Without any further sense of propriety, he unlaced his breeches and took himself in hand, stroking himself roughly and quickly. He could see the fire radiating in Svala’s eyes so clearly as he imagined himself pushing into her, the way the green orbs would glow with passion and lust for him. It took him no time at all to finish, and he came with a loud groan that threatened to shake the nearby walls.

He only hoped that Svala heard it.

* * *

_“Stay still,” Trearil purred in her ear, stroking her bare bottom as though he were inspecting a horse for mating. “It will hurt less if you do.”_

_“Fuck you,” Svala spat into the wood of the table he had her bound to. “I swear to all eight divines I **will** kill you.” _

_His hand smacked her flank causing her to jolt forward in pain. “I find that hard to believe, given your current position pet,” the Altmer laughed, pressing a dry finger into her. The burn and the stretch was unbearable and she moaned against the painful intrusion. “Now be a good girl and stay still and maybe you’ll even start to enjoy it.”_

_She could hear him unlacing his trousers behind her and she could feel the sudden, but familiar, spike in anxiety. Breathing deeply through her nose, Svala tried to focus on anything but Trearil pressing himself into her, inch by agonizing inch. The damp smell of the cell he had her in, the rough feeling of the rope that bound her ankles and wrists, anything **but** the sound of Trearil’s golden flesh smacking against her own, the rough pants of his pleasure in her ear, the smell of his sweat..._

Someone was pounding on her door.

Svala sat up in bed with a start, her chest heaving as cold sweat covered her neck and face. She quickly scanned the room, finding herself in the Palace of the Kings (and thankfully _not_ in a Thalmor dungeon) in a lavish set of rooms that smelled lightly of snowberries and lavender. “What?” She snapped, placing her head in her hands and trying to steady her breathing.

“Jarl Ulfric would like to invite you to break his fast with him, Bone-Breaker.” Jorlief said through the door, courteous as ever. She rolled her eyes. Fat chance of that happening, as she couldn’t currently decide whether she wanted to bed or behead the Jarl. And it wasn’t as though she could perform either of those options, could she. “No.” Svala replied flatly. “Tell him I’m not hungry.”

She waited until she heard Jorlief’s retreating footsteps before she rose out of bed, dressing herself in a simple blue robe that had been laid out on the chair next to the bed. It was finer than anything Svala had ever owned, complete with golden embroidery around the neckline and sleeves. Was this Ulfric’s idea of a peace offering? She rolled her eyes, continuing to poke around her new chambers. It would take more than pretty trinkets to win her over. She opened the large brown wardrobe in the corner of the room, only to find it filled with various robes, bits of fine Nordic armor, and even a few dresses and gowns. Opening the other drawers led her to find assorted weapons that had seemed to have been handcrafted for her as they all contained dragon insignias and markings. The only possessions that were really _hers_ had been placed neatly in the final, bottom drawer of the wardrobe; the Thalmor dossiers, a few dragon bone carvings and assorted dragon scales, some bottles of Black Briar Reserve mead, her Thieves Guild Armor, and the Amulet of Mara she had worn for Brynjolf.

Brynjolf. Just thinking of him sent a sharp pain through her, but it was for the best. She couldn’t risk his safety, not with both dragons _and_ the Thalmor to worry about. He would be safer without her, without knowing where she was. Even if she wasn’t meant to survive the trials that lay ahead of her, Svala needed to know that Brynjolf would.

There was another knock at her door. “Jorlief, I already told you-“

“I have brought food to you,” Ulfric’s smooth voice said. “I believe I instructed to have a small table placed within your rooms, so perhaps this arrangement would be more to your liking?”

Svala froze. As much as she wanted to refuse, she knew she was already on thin ice with the Jarl, and wasn’t about to make matters worse for herself. For whatever bizarre reason, there was a growing part of her that did crave Ulfric’s approval, and cared (deeply) about what he thought of her. “Come in.”

It amused her to see Ulfric carrying the food himself in his large arms, and she must’ve laughed, because his eyebrow raised at her. “You know, before I was Jarl I was a soldier, and was quite capable of doing things for myself.” He said, placing the food on the table. He had chosen well, bringing smoked salmon and goat cheese, alto wine and snowberry crostadas. She hadn’t realized just how hungry she was until the aroma of fresh food hit her nose, and it brought her to the chair across from Ulfric at once, grabbing a sweet roll and biting into it without ceremony. Ulfric sat opposite her, pouring her a goblet of wine before doing the same for himself. “Are you going to tell me where you disappeared to, yet?”

Svala stopped chewing. She narrowed her eyes at him. “So that’s what this is? A bribe?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ulfric scoffed, tearing into a loaf of bread. Her eyes flittered to his hands- just one of his fingers would stretch her so nicely, she bet it would feel like a smaller man’s cock inside her. She crossed her legs discreetly under the table, feeling the beginning signs of arousal. “As I’ve said before, you are my guest, not my prisoner. And as a true Nord, I like to show my guests proper hospitality. This is nothing more than a conversation between friends.”

“Friends?” She laughed, nearly choking on her sweet roll. “I didn’t know you considered us to be so close.”

“You don’t?” Was it her imagination, or did a brief flash of hurt pass Ulfric’s face for a moment? “I suppose I could always order you to tell me...” He recovery nicely, his expression back to its familiar stoic countenance.

“Official Dragonborn business,” she answered tightly, cutting into a salmon steak. “I’m afraid I can’t say more than that.”

It was Ulfric’s turn to laugh. “I’m the Jarl, Svala. I would argue it is my duty to know such things.”

“No.” She said definitively. “Not this you don’t. If you really count me as a friend, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to trust me, _Jarl_ Ulfric.”

His intense blue eyes studied her for a moment before he shrugged. “I suppose I will. Can you tell me this instead; were you planning on returning after this...Dragonborn business was concluded?”

Svala wanted to laugh again. She wasn’t sure if Dragonborn business would _ever_ be concluded. It seemed that there was always another clue, always another task for her to complete. She knew that Esbern and Delphine were probably awaiting her in Riverwood at that very moment and knew the letters would begin to arrive any day now. She also knew she couldn’t keep them waiting forever, not if what Esbern said had any truth to it. “Of course,” Svala lied smoothly. “I made an oath. I don’t take that lightly.”

Ulfric nodded, lost in thought. “You mentioned once that you had been captured by the Thalmor. Do you worry they still search for you?”

Her stomach dropped. She pushed her half eaten plate away, her appetite gone. “That’s not your concern.”

“We have a mutual enemy,” he said evenly, reaching for her hand it covering it with his own. The warmth of his skin sent pleasant shivers down her spine. She wanted him to touch her everywhere... “So I would say that it is my concern. I want you to know that you are _safe_ here, Svala. My men will protect you with their lives. You have nothing to fear while you are in this palace. I swear this to you.”

She could feel his soothing words washing over her, and for a second, Svala allowed herself to believe them. Maybe staying under Ulfric’s supervision was the best move...the Thalmor would consider it suicide to try and snatch her from inside the palace walls, and the city was crawling with fellow Stormcloaks. Still, she knew better. If Trearil was intent on finding her, it would take death to stop him from achieving his goal. She would not coddle herself with lies of false hope. Not again.

Ulfric’s thumb was tracing circles on her wrist. She drained her goblet of wine before placing her foot on his calf. Her toes played with the material of his trousers, and she watched him draw in a deep breath. Good. Anything to distract him from talking about the Thalmor. “Perhaps you’ve had enough,” he rumbled, his eyes darkening at her. He didn’t remove her foot, however, and instead allowed it to travel up his leg. Her heart began to beat erratically within her chest. Why wasn’t he stopping her?

“I feel fine,” she said airily, although she felt as though she had swallowed a bee’s nest. Her foot was nearly at his groin now, and she was watching his own labored breaths come quicker and quicker. His eyes were nearly black now, his pupils so expanded it was hard to see the blue there. “Are you feeling alright, my Jarl? You look a bit...out of sorts.” Her toes grazed his crotch, against the growing bulge she found there, and she sucked in a breath of her own. He was _massive._ Bigger than she had imagined, even. The want that hit her suddenly made her dizzy.

Ulfric sucked in a breath through his teeth. “You play with fire, little dovah.” His voice was even deeper than normal, coming out like a clap of thunder. She thanked Mara she had decided to wear small clothes- she could feel her wetness soaking through them onto the wood of the chair seat. Had she gone bare, there surely would have been a puddle on the floor.

“I’ve come to understand that dragons like fire,” she smirked at him. Their eyes met once more; she hoped he could see the determination in her gaze. She would not be the one to break first.

Ulfric stood, nearly topping the table over in the process. His jaw was clenched and he drew his fur cloak around his middle to avert her view of his...problem. He opened his mouth to respond when Jorlief’s voice came from outside the door, “My Jarl? You are needed urgently within the great hall. Another woman has been found.”

Saved by the steward, Svala thought to herself, as Ulfric straightened. It was almost palpable, the change that overtook him, as he shifted into Jarl Ulfric once more. It appeared he didn’t even need to hold his cloak as tightly against himself as he had to a moment ago. “Good day, Bone-Breaker. I’m afraid duty calls.” She felt a brief pang of disappointment, but chased it away as a ridiculous emotion.

After all, she was living in the palace now. There would be plenty of time to continue things later.


	11. Eleven

If anything could kill Ulfric’s desire as quickly as having a bucket of cold water dumped upon him, it was hearing that another woman had been murdered in Windhelm.

The murders had stopped for a while, thank Talos, as Stormcloak involvement in the war had gained traction. However, it seemed as though the killer had grown restless and was acting up again, leaving Ulfric and the city guard exactly where they had been before: clueless. There were no leads, no witnesses, nothing to give any indication to who was performing such despicable actions. It drove Ulfric mad- if he could not protect those within his own city walls, how could he _ever_ expect to protect all of Skyrim?

“I want to know everything,” he said stonily to Jorlief, striding to the great hall. “Who was it this time?”

“Susanna the Wicked,” Jorlief replied sadly. “I had just seen her in Candlehearth a fortnight ago. Now it’s hard to tell that it’s even her.”

Ulfric’s stomach turned. Susanna had offered her...services to him rather recently, upon hearing the Jarl’s newfound interest in whores. He had denied her, of course, but that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t tempted. Perhaps he had been too rash giving Svala permission to exit the palace. Perhaps he should rescind the courtesy immediately and have her stay put, if not for her own safety than anything else... “Witnesses? Evidence?”

“No, my Jarl. Just the body dumped in the cemetery as always.”

He growled, pacing in front of his throne. Something had to be done, and done fast. No more women would die on his watch. “Give the guard whatever resources necessary they need to find the culprit. I will not see this senseless butchering continue of Windhelm’s own. And when the vagrant is caught, he is to be brought before me, _alive_. Is that clear?”

Jorlief nodded vigorously. “Of course, my Jarl. It will be done.”

* * *

Unbeknownst to Ulfric or his steward, Svala had been listening to everything. Her training in the Guild had taught her how to effectively avoid detection, so it was rather easy to follow the pair a few paces behind, sticking to the shadows.

A murderer? She was already halfway back to her rooms, thinking about what set of armor to wear. That sounded like something to do. Since Ulfric had all but locked her in Windhelm for the time being she was in need of something to keep her occupied. Solving a murder seemed like a good use of her time, maybe it would even allow Ulfric to let her back in the field sooner. Svala ended up deciding on the carved Nordic armor Ulfric had gifted her with, packing her dagger and a couple of swords just in case, before heading out to the cemetery to investigate.

It truly was a gruesome sight.

Had she not heard Jorlief say it was Susanna, she never would have been able to tell. Large strips of flesh had been torn away from her body savagely, and her face was so bloodied and bashed that it bore no resemblance at all. In fact, if she had been walking by briskly, she would have just assumed it was a pile of bloody meat left out to rot in the early morning sunshine. The breakfast she had enjoyed with Ulfric crept back up into her throat.

“Hold it there. Keep your distance.”

Her head shot up to see one of the city guard holding her away from approaching any closer. “What happened here?” Svala asked, feigning ignorance.

“Another girl killed,” the guard reported sadly. “This is Susanna, from Candlehearth Hall. Served me a drink just a few nights ago...but I can’t say I knew her. Susanna’s the third. It’s always the same: young girl, killed at night, body torn up.”

Svala frowned. Ulfric had allowed this to happen _three_ separate times? Maybe he should have spent less time worrying about her whereabouts and more about the safety of his own people. “Are the murders being investigated?”

“We’re stretched thin as it is with the war. Nobody has the time to spend on this. Not pleasant, but it’s the truth.” The guard shrugged. Her nonchalance made Svala bristle with sudden anger. “Sounds like the guards aren’t doing their jobs.”

“Look, there’s a war going on, if you haven’t heard.” The female guard narrowed her eyes at her through the slits in her iron helmet, now defensive. “We barely have enough soldiers to walk the streets, much less patrol every corner.”

“Maybe you could use some help,” she shrugged, playing coy. “I’d be happy to offer my services.”

The guard scoffed, already turning to walk away. “If you want to help, ask some of these gawkers if they saw anything useful. I’m going to examine the body before the rats can get to it.”

There was a small crowd gathering around the body, now that Svala had the mind to notice it. An Imperial man, a beggar woman, and a priestess. She didn’t care for her odds on hearing anything useful. She approached the Imperial first, who offered her a small, sorrowful smile as he saw her approach. “Always sad when someone dies.”

The comment struck her was odd and her skin prickled with sudden suspicion. “Did you see what happened here?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I thought I saw a fellow running away, but didn’t get a good look at him.” With that, he departed, without sparing her a second glance. The other two witnesses were as equally unhelpful, however neither mentioned seeing anyone running from the scene. Svala reported this to the guard.

“Just like always,” she sighed. “Nobody saw anything useful. The bastard’s escaped again.”

“There might be more to this if you’ll let me help,” Svala answered through gritted teeth. Clearly someone _had_ seen something useful, even if it was meant to be a red herring to throw her off the scent. Brynjolf had always taught her to be mindful of those who paid too much attention to an investigation of any kind, as they likely had a personal stake in its outcome or were the perpetrator themselves. _“Always best to stay clear when the guards come running, Lala. Nothing shows a guilty conscience like wanting to play the hero.”_

“Look, friend, if you think you can do better than the legion of guards, be my guest. You’ll need to talk to Jorlief, though. We can’t just let anyone go around claiming to be on official business. If he’s willing, then we’ll talk.”

“And a member of Jarl Ulfric’s personal guard?” Shock made the guard’s face go slack. At least she had the dignity not to continue arguing. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Don’t worry. I’ll have this sorted soon.”

While Svala had always prided herself on being observant, since she had begun to scratch the surface of her Dragonborn abilities she found that she was able to sense more than what was possible for other mortals. Something, for instance, like dried blood upon the ground. The metallic scent remained faint underneath the tracks of snow and mud, and like a bloodhound, she began to follow the trail it made. It led her weaving throughout the market place and the Grey Quarter, before disappearing near Candlehearth Hall. While she hadn’t been able to find anything useful, it did tell her that the murder was smart and methodical as he had gone to the trouble of taking different routes each time he poached a victim. He _planned_ his kills- he did not make rash moves.

Which meant that he would most likely wait until suspicion died down before striking again.

Still, Svala was curious about the Imperial who had been hovering over Susanna’s body. Asking the guard for his name (she was suddenly much more cooperative than before) she decided to pay this Calixto Corrium a visit at his “House of Curiosities”.

House of Junk, perhaps. She had seen greater artifacts in the Guild vaults- hell, she had probably stolen a few too. However, actively insulting the man wouldn’t do her any favors: she had to play things smart.

“Welcome to the House of Curiosities! I offer a brief tour for a few coin, or you can explore at your own leisure.” Calixto greeted cheerfully without really looking at her. Once he did, however, his face tensed slightly. “Oh, it’s you. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more information than I already have.”

“I’m just here to see your lovely collection,” Svala said with a smile, keeping her guard up. There was something about the man that set her teeth on edge. She stopped before a bookcase noticing a weathered tome with no title. “What’s this?”

“Ah, yes. That is the Book of Fate.” She thumbed through the pages finding nothing but blank parchment within. “It is said to reveal the destiny of the reader, so each person who reads the book finds something different written within.”

“And if it’s blank?”

Calixto smiled tightly at her. “Well I suppose it could be either one of two things: you may have no present destiny or...” Svala raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to finish. Calixto’s grin turned rather predatory as he concluded his hypothesis. “Or you are about to die.”


	12. Twelve

Calixto’s book must’ve been fake, as enough time had passed and Svala was still very much alive and settling into a (somewhat monotonous) routine in Windhelm.

It was odd for someone like her- she wasn’t used to spending too long in any place, Whiterun included. She had a house there, yes, but it was mainly to store things and stock up on supplies before her next journey. Honestly, it was more Lydia’s home than it had ever been hers. But the more time she was forced to spend in Windhelm, the more the old, bleak city began to feel...comfortable to her. She wouldn’t call it home, however. She only had one home, long ago, and bandits had stolen it from her. Svala knew better: nothing was permanent, nothing safe. Besides, she was too consumed with restless energy to ever _truly_ relax; there was still Alduin and Trearil to deal with.

She spent her mornings breaking her fast in the great hall, seated at Ulfric’s massive table. He had been avoiding spending any time alone with her since the last interaction they had had in her chambers. She wondered if he was angry with her for being so bold in her approach, but he seemed perfectly pleasant with her whenever they were in public. He asked how she was finding her time in the city, how she was getting along with the locals. Of course he was still Ulfric, all tied up in his war and aloof as always, but she didn’t sense he was upset with her. Still it made no sense why he wouldn’t just admit that he wanted her so that they could bed each other and be done with it. The tension was killing her, so she spent as much time out of the palace and wandering the city as often as she could.

She was also waiting for Calixto to make his next move.

The Imperial had been keeping a low profile, Svala noticed. He went to the market and spent the rest of the time in his little museum, nothing of note. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was up to something more nefarious, that he was the one behind the murders, but alas she had no concrete proof to go on. She doubted Ulfric would take her seriously if she told him that her “dragon senses” had led her to the conclusion that Calixto was guilty. It didn’t stop her from keeping a close eye on him, however.

Honestly, the more time she spent in Windhlem, the more Svala’s opinions on its Jarl seemed to shift. She had given her allegiance to Ulfric believing that he only cared about the Nords (after all, the slogan “Skyrim for the Nords” was pretty decisive) keeping the Dunmer, Argonians, and Khajit secluded in different parts of the city. However, she came to learn that the Dunmer chose to live in the Grey Quarter out of preference, crafting the subsection into a small version of Morrowind. Like the Dunmer, the Argonians chose to live on the dockside since being close to a body of water helped their scaly complexions and also reminded them of the Black Marsh. And the Khjait, who she was told set up a small trading post outside of Windhelm, were never said to have stayed too long in any one place, preferring instead to travel in caravans. Perhaps Ulfric’s “prejudice” was really just a carefully crafted political move. Everyone seemed happy and healthy enough, with the exception of Viola Giordino who roamed the streets handing out pamphlets emblazoned with _Beware the Butcher!,_ sensationalizing the murders even more and helping to spread a growing sense of terror and paranoia. Before she even consciously realized it, Svala found that she honestly respected Ulfric and thought perhaps he might even make a fine king, should the Stormcloaks prevail.

Not that she would ever tell him that.

And so, other than a few drunken brawls (Rolff was just too much fun to beat only once) and an odd take on a shill job she did for the Dunner who owned the used goods store (a thief _returning_ something was new), Svala felt incredibly bored. Even Esbern had written her and told her that he and Delphine were on their way to some sort of ancient Blades temple in order to find information about Alduin and that he would send word when he found anything of use. She ended up cooking the books at the East Empire Company (knowing fully well that Delvin used them to run stolen goods from time to time) and committing a sweep on Giordino’s home, sending the items to the Guild anonymously. It was the least Svala could do for Brynjolf and the rest, and it was a way to pass the time.

She was walking back to the palace one night from the New Gnisis Corner Club (Svala found they had better mead and trusted Ulfric wouldn’t spy on her there) when she saw a small girl standing by the dock gates of the city selling flowers. She was shivering in the cold, looked to be skeletal, and was as dirty as could be. Svala’s heart broke for her- had she herself been younger when her parents were killed, that could’ve been her own fate. “What’s for sale?”

“Just some flowers,” the girl said sadly. “It’s not much, but I hope you like them.” She had some lavender and dragon’s tongue, snowberries and blue mountain flower.

Svala bought them all. “Where are you parents?”

“They died,” the little girl’s eyes filled with tears. “So now I sell flowers out here and try to save up for a room in the inn. They wanted to send me to Honorhall, but Aventus Arentino told me how awful it was there, so I hopped out of the carriage. I heard he’s even trying to kill the lady that runs it, Grelod the Kind! He’s trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood and everything!” Comically, her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her gaping mouth. “Oh no, I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Svala laughed gently. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Though your friend shouldn’t mess with the Brotherhood- they’re a dangerous bunch.” She remembered what Delvin had told her from his time with the Dark Brotherhood...nasty business. “What’s your name?”

“Sofie,” she smiled sadly at Svala. “You’re nicer than the other guards. They don’t pay much attention to me anymore.”

Of course they didn’t. They couldn’t even follow a damn blood trail, Svala silently fumed to herself. “You must be hungry. Come with me, I’ll get you a bath and some food to eat. Besides, it’s too dangerous for you to be out here all alone.”

“Really?” Sofie’s eyes lit up. “Do you...do you have a place I could stay? Maybe for a little while?”

“No,” she told the child gently. “But I have a friend who does.”

* * *

The next morning, Ulfric found that Svala was suspiciously absent from her place at his table, and found a child there instead.

“Jorleif,” he asked quietly, taking his own seat at the head of the table. “Who is that?”

“Lady Svala’s new steward,” Ulfric’s own steward answered happily. (Svala had forbidden anyone from calling her Bone-Breaker while she remained in Windhelm, since she “wasn’t breaking any bones any time soon”.) The little girl waved brightly at him, stuffing a sweet roll in her mouth. Her long brown hair was in a single braid down her back, just the way Svala wore it. “Her name is Sofie.”

Ulfric nodded slowly, unsure why Svala needed a steward anyway. A steward was meant to run a homestead, and since Svala was currently residing in _his_ palace (and it was a child in question), the story didn’t seem to fit. Minutes later the child’s master came strolling in with a yawn, taking the empty seat next to Sofie. “Lady Svala? Might you join me up here, if you would.”

Svala raised an eyebrow at him before slowly nodding, whispering something to Sofie before taking the seat next to him. “Something wrong, my Jarl?”

“I’m just curious,” Ulfric began slowly. “Why you have invited a child into my palace.”

“She’s my steward,” Svala answered carefully. She dunked a slice of bread in honey and began eating as though the matter were settled.

Ulfric’s own bushy eyebrow rose at that. “I am also curious how she can be a steward since you have no homestead for her to run, and given that she is a child.”

Svala stopped chewing. “Well she’s rather short to be my sworn shield, don’t you think?”

His own thunderous laughter surprised him. Damn this woman, she was honestly too quick for him at times (not that he’d ever tell her that). “Svala, there is adoption for these matters.”

Something dark flickered over her face and immediately all sense of levity was gone. “No. I can’t adopt her.” Ulfric immediately felt as though he had said the wrong thing, although he was unsure of what that was. “But I can’t let her keep living on the streets either.”

The child was on the streets? Why wasn’t she in Honorhall if she were alone in the world? His gaze turned to Sofie once more, who was talking excitedly to Wuunferth. He had never seen his mage so...relaxed. It was an odd scene. “I was not aware she was homeless. I will arrange transport to Honorhall for her at once.”

“Like _hell_ you will,” Svala hissed at him, suddenly venomous. “You do realize that there is a child within this city who is attempting to summon _the damn Dark Brotherhood_ to kill the woman in charge of the orphanage, correct? I can’t imagine that speaks to a happy or safe environment for children.”

Ulfric resisted the urge to smile. It seemed that she had taken to Windhlem after all; she was beginning to know more about the daily lives of its citizens than he did. “Perhaps I should contact Riften’s Jarl, have her removed from her post.”

She scoffed at that, gulping down her wine. “Grelod is in Maven Black Briar’s pocket, nothing would change. Honestly, death would be the only way to get her out of the way, but-“ Svala stopped talking abruptly, flushing as she met Ulfric’s gaze. “Not that I’d kill her. I’m just saying.”

“I just didn’t realize you were so familiar with Riften.” Truthfully, Ulfric didn’t know much about Svala. He had been keeping his distance from her, careful not to engage her alone, not since the last time in her chambers...The memory of her foot on his cock had kept him up for days afterward, and he felt it inappropriate to employ a whore while she was staying in the palace, so he was left with only his hand for comfort. It provided little. “Did you grow up there?”

Once again, Ulfric watched her face darken. “No.” He resisted the urge to sigh. She truly infuriated him at times. “I have a proposition for you, then.”

She peered at him suspiciously over her goblet of wine. “Go on.”

“I will allow you to keep Sofie within your chambers _if_ you tell me more about yourself. And no lies, I will know.” Surprise illuminated her face, but just as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving only more suspicion in its wake. “This is no trick, Svala. I am just curious about you.”

“Why?” She blurted at him. “Because I’m the Dragonborn? Because I’m your ‘friend’? Why?”

“Because you interest me,” Ulfric told her simply, resisting the urge to take her hand once more. Touching her would only lead to dangerous territory, and he could not rise from his own table with a raging erection. “And as I’ve already told you, I’m curious.”

For a second, she was quiet, her gaze locked upon him. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than he had ever heard it. “My mother’s name was Helgi. My father was Radvar. They owned a small farm outside of Rorikstead before a group of bandits came and burned it to the ground. They killed my mother in front of my father and I, offered to spare his life if he’d sell me to them as a slave. He accepted, sold me for 100 septims. They killed him anyway.”

Ulfric felt sick. “Svala...I’m so sorry.”

Svala stood abruptly, her eyes blank and her face cold. “Have a bed and new clothes for Sofie delivered to my rooms, and I’ll tell you whatever else you like later. For a price.”

He nodded once and then she was gone. He could smell the faint scent of snowberries and lavender in her wake.

* * *

Ulfric had noticed she never spent too long within the palace walls, though he was too preoccupied with waging a war and running Windhelm to find out about Svala’s whereabouts. He only hoped she hadn’t heard about “The Butcher” and was keeping herself out of trouble. It was an odd feeling for him, to want to be so protective over one of his own soldiers. He couldn’t say he minded it, especially the more time he spent watching Svala with Sofie. She was gentle with the child, always sneaking her treats and gifts. It was plain to anyone that Sofie adored the Dragonborn and had began to look up to her as a surrogate mother, but no one was stupid enough to tell that to Svala’s face. She was still operating under the guise that Sofie was her “steward”.

If anything, the child was becoming Wuunferth’s apprentice. While Svala spent her days in the city, Sofie would learn from the court mage. Her knowledge of local flora and their medicinal properties was actually quite advanced for someone of her age, and more than once Wuunferth had told Ulfric that she was on her way to becoming a fine alchemist. He had built an alchemy table within Svala’s chambers immediately after that conversation, and while Svala was initially confused, she offered him a genuine smile when she saw Sofie’s excitement and told him about her time with the Thieves Guild over that night’s supper.

He would’ve never pegged her for a thief- she was too mouthy. Still, she told him she had spent 8 years in the Guild, training under its current Guildmaster (whose name she wouldn’t give him, no matter how hard he pressed) and had even begun stealing small trinkets and books out of his chambers only to return them in the morning at first meal to prove her skills. Ulfric always wondered if she kept a few items for herself, but he never questioned her. He would give her anything she desired, really, anything at all. He was becoming quite enamored with the Dragonborn.

That was a problem.

For one, he knew he would eventually have to send her back out into the field. He hadn’t informed Galmar that she had been recovered by Ralof, and knew that soon the old bear would begin to grow suspicious and come sniffing himself. For another, there was the Moot to consider. He would need a noble wife if he had any hope to gain the support needed to secure his place as Skyrim’s high king. While he toyed with the fantasy (idea) of courting Svala and marrying her proper, he had reservations on how she would take to a life of politics and galas. She was a warrior, not unlike himself, and needed space to roam like the dragon she was. And truthfully, he did not know if she was even available for marriage- she did not wear an Amulet of Mara, nor a wedding band. She did not speak of any men to him, but then again, it was hard enough to get her to speak about her past at all. Besides, Ulfric was significantly older than her, and doubted she would take genuine interest in him. She toyed with him, yes, flirted with him on occasion, but he supposed that his power was what she (and most women) found most attractive about him. She would want a young, strapping husband who could accompany her out in the wilds of Skyrim, not a stuffy older Jarl sitting on a throne.

Ulfric groaned, unable to sleep. All he could think about was the damn Dragonborn and her stupid auburn hair and mischievous green eyes. He rose from his chambers, leaving his chest bare, and walked to the throne room. He was surprised to see the object of his thoughts seated at the large table of the main hall, carving something. “What are you doing?”

She startled easily, apparently lost within her craft. For a moment, she whirled to face him, pointing the dagger at him before realizing who he was. “You scared me,” she said in lieu of an apology before holding up a roughly carved blade made out of bone. “It’s for Sofie. It’s dragon bone- I’m going to make a grip out of wood and then give it to her so she can start to train with it. She needs to know how to defend herself.”

Ulfric smiled taking a seat next to her. “She’s perfectly safe here, you know. And Wuunferth is teaching her some defensive magic that she’s taken rather quickly to, so I don’t think you need to worry about her too much.”

“She won’t be here forever though,” Svala answered moodily, shaping the bone with the blade of her dagger. “And she should know multiple styles of fighting in case she’s ever in a position where she can’t use her magic.”

He hummed in response, touched by her protective streak over the child. For a moment, Ulfric had a vision of her in the training yard with Sofie and _their_ child, a wild youth with blue eyes and auburn hair, teaching them how to fight...No. “You mentioned to me once you were captured by the Thalmor. Do you know why they were looking for you?”

She stiffened and he half expected her to flee. Instead, she fixed a steely gaze upon him and said, “I have no idea. Mercer sold me out and they picked me up out of Riften and shipped me to Cyrodiil for 3 years. They tortured me daily, asking me about dragons, about my family, until finally they got tired of me and sent me back to Helgen where I was supposed to be killed- as you might remember.”

Ulfric nodded. “I remember.” Had the Thalmor suspected she was the Dragonborn? It seemed they had a way of knowing before Svala herself did...the notion unsettled him greatly. “They are a ruthless bunch, despicable creatures. I have also had the misfortune to suffer their cruelty, as I’m sure you know.”

“Did they rape you?” Her eyes grew brighter with tears and her sharp voice became unsteady. “Did they defile you in every way they could think of? Do they still hunt after you? No?” He remained silent. “Then we’re not the same.”

He felt his blood run cold. _After_ he won the war, he would destroy the Altmer bastards, wipe them from existence, by Talos he _swore_ he would. Wordlessly, Ulfric took her hand and carefully pressed it against his chest, allowing her fingers to trace over the various scars he had there. “This? Was all the work of my time with the Thalmor after the Markarth incident. They wanted to flay me, they told me, so they could hang ‘the Great Bear’s pelt upon their mantle’. Eventually, I could not withstand their torture any longer, so I betrayed my own people.”

“You didn’t,” she said softly, running her fingertips around his chest in little swirls, tickling the fine hairs on his chest. Had their conversation not been so dark he would’ve surely been hard by now. “The city had fallen before you broke.”

Ulfric froze. “And how would you know that?”

She grinned sheepishly at him. “I may have broken into the Embassy in Solitude and stolen a dossier about you?” Ulfric’s stormy expression must’ve made her nervous because she quickly added, “I haven’t shown anyone or told anybody a thing! Honestly, the book is in my chambers. You can have it.”

He could feel himself soften. He wasn’t angry with her, he truly wasn’t. The weight of her words was settling in, both stoking his rage and also giving him a sense of relief that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. The guilt, the shame he had carried with him since the Markarth incident was finally lifted from him and it was a dizzying sensation.

And then he remembered that she was touching his chest.

Ulfric flooded with heat, suddenly highly sensitive and aware to each brush of her fingers. He stared at her face, and she seemed to have forgotten her hand was still in place, she was so lost in thought. She seemed so sad, so weary...the weight of her experiences was written so clearly on her face, clearer than any scar she could’ve worn. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever known,” he blurted out, watching her face soften and her frown disappear. He didn’t know what came over him, he just needed her to know. Needed her to see how much she was beginning to mean to him... “Truly. You have survived so much and you...you are just remarkable to me.”

Svala’s eyes swam with tears once more. “Stop,” she told him without any malice and then pressed her lips to his.

Her lips were so soft and perfect against his own, by Mara, it was everything he could do not to devour her. The weight of his want for her startled even him and he couldn’t help but bring a large hand to the back of her neck and drag her closer, slipping his tongue inside her mouth and tasting just how sweet she was. When Svala gasped against him and pressed herself closer to him, raking her fingernails across one of his sensitive nipples, he groaned and kissed her more fiercely, biting her bottom lip and drinking her moans that it caused.

And then it was over.

Svala pulled away from him suddenly, eyes wide and lips swollen. He could see the irritation his beard had caused on her delicate skin and it left him with a vague sense of pride. “I’m...I must go,” she spluttered, rising in haste. Ulfric was still trying to keep his wits about him, to prevent himself from grabbing her by the waist and pulling her onto his lap and continuing exactly where they had left off, so he remained silent.

He watched her leave the palace with the feeling of her lips still fresh on his own and the taste of her mouth on his tongue.


	13. Thirteen

Svala couldn’t believe she had kissed him.

There was a lot about their current interaction that she couldn’t believe- Ulfric’s words about her, for one. _“You are the bravest person I’ve ever met.”_ He must’ve been lying, he couldn’t have been telling her the truth...could he? Every time she heard his words reverberate in her head her body filled with a peculiar sense of warmth. She wanted him to keep kissing her, his large hands roaming her body, she wanted his lips everywhere... _no_. She had stopped him for a reason. She had already made this mistake with Brynjolf- her future was too uncertain, too dangerous for her ensnare someone else into it. She had done enough damage by telling Ulfric all that she had about her past, about the Guild, even about the damn Thalmor. Why she had become so reckless around Ulfric, she’d never know, but she would be damned if she’d let him pay for her mistakes. She had taken an oath to give her life for his if necessary and she would honor it if it came to that.

With a groan of frustration, she turned her attention back to following the blood trail. Some of the snow on the streets had melted, and she was able to scent the particular metallic tang of old blood. Luckily, this new discovery continued the blood trail, and she was able to follow it to an abandoned house near the palace.

Checking to see if any guards were watching she started to pick the lock. It took her a few tries, she was rather rusty, but on the third attempt the lock clicked and the door creaked open. Sneaking inside, she was bombarded with a heavy stench of blood that nearly made her retch. She conjured some candlelight, and then gasped in horror as she her eyes adjusted to the dim light, allowing her to see the carnage within.

There was patches of brown blood everywhere staining the walls and the floorboards. While cobwebs decorated the corners of the room, it was clear that someone had been inside recently. A bloodied chest had hastily been shoved against the wall, she could tell by the scratch marks on the floor, but other than that Svala was hard pressed to see any other furniture. She carefully opened the chest, careful to avoid any traps if there were any (still, she knew it couldn’t hurt to be overly cautious), and found clumps of Viola’s _Beware the Butcher_ flyers stashed inside. There were also two red journals which immediately caught her attention, and once she had closed the lid of the trunk she sat upon it and began to flip through them.

_The plans are coming together swimmingly. I’ve found good sources of bone, flesh, and blood. ...Last night I was almost able to corner Susanna as she left Candlehearth. Idiot guards showed up at just the wrong moment and I had to turn about...6 spoons of marrow (no more than 2 from a thigh)...(translation from Aldmer text, as interpreted by the Ayleids and first transcribed by Altmer. Provenance and authority unknown)...soon_

Feeling bile rise in her throat, Svala threw the books to the side. This reeked of necromancy and dark magic, and it was no surprise that Calixto had found inspiration from Altmer texts. She vaguely remembered some of Trearil’s subordinates dabbling in necromancy while she had been his captive...was Corrium a Thalmor agent? How deep did this go?

Suddenly, Svala tensed. She could hear the door beginning to open and panic seized her. Searching her surroundings wildly, she found a wardrobe hidden within a small room nailed to the floor. Although she found it odd, she could hear approaching footsteps and had no option but to open it. The space inside was half of what a normal wardrobe would contain, and she felt around looking for a latch to a false panel. Sure enough, the false bottom gave way and swung open, revealing a secret chamber with contents even more gruesome than the rest of the house.

An altar lay against the wall, with a decomposing skeleton upon it and various organs and strips of flesh surrounding the bone fragments and littering the floor. There was a a small cupboard in the corner stuffed full with more Butcher pamphlets and a small, strange amulet nestled around the faded scraps of parchment. She held it gingerly by the cord, immediately recognizing it- a necromancer’s amulet. She remembered seeing the Thalmor necromancers wearing ones identical to the one she held, although this one showed signs of age and wear. She pocketed the amulet, melting into the shadows as the sound of heavy footfalls grew closer.

It was Corrium, alright. And he wasn’t alone.

Arivanya, wife of the Bosmer who owned Windhelm stables (gods above she really knew too much about this damn city) was unconscious and slung over Calixto’s shoulder. With a grunt, he dropped her onto the altar, sending bones skittering across the wooden floor. Svala squinted her eyes; Arivanya was still breathing, which was a good sign. Still, she knew if she couldn’t stop Calixto soon, that would no longer be the case. Silently, she unsheathed her dagger and crept towards the Imperial’s back.

Quicker than she would’ve expected Corrium able to move, he spun towards her, slashing her at her with his own dagger. She leapt out of the way, avoiding any major damage, but could still feel a superficial cut bleeding on her neck. “You really need to be more subtle,” he sneered at her smugly. She could feel the cut beginning to throb- something was wrong. Poison? Svala’s knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor, feeling her muscles seize in paralysis. Shit. Definitely poison. “No matter. I can always use another participant for my...experiments.”

Svala spit at him while she was able, even as the muscles in her face began to freeze as well. This wasn’t good. She couldn’t even shout now, her last means of escape. Calixto peered down at her standing over her immobile body, before kneeling and rummaging in her pockets, retrieving the amulet and placing it around his neck. “Before I deal with you, though, I think I’ll let you enjoy the show.”

* * *

Ulfric awoke to tiny hands beating at him wildly.

He shoved blindly, cracking open an eye blearily. Sofie was in his chambers, tears streaming down her face, as she continued to flail at him. “Get up get up GET UP!” She was chanting through her tears. “Mala is gone!”

Mala? “Who?” Ulfric asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. Mala? He didn’t know anyone by that- _oh_. Mama and Svala combined would make Mala. Was that what the girl had been calling her? Had he not been so confused and half awake he would’ve smiled at the endearment. “Lady Svala will be back soon, I’m sure. You know she likes to wander the city.”

“She never misses morning meal!” The girl continued hysterically. “Something is _wrong_ , I know it! It’s almost noon and she’s still not back!”

Noon? Talos, how long had he been asleep?? He supposed he had slept in, enjoying the first peaceful sleep he had enjoyed in ages. Perhaps the kiss he shared with Svala had something to do with it... Fully awake now, Ulfric rose from his bed, pulling on a clean tunic and fastening his armor. “Sofie, go to Wuunferth’s chambers. I promise you I will find Lady Svala and return her to you safe and sound.” Wordlessly, the little girl nodded, tears still pouring from her large brown eyes. “But you must also promise to _never_ enter my rooms without permission again. I am the Jarl here, and it is not appropriate to do so.”

“But I thought she’d be here,” Sofie mumbled to her shoes petulantly. Ulfric knelt so that they were of the same height tipping her chin up to face him. “Why would you think that, child? Lady Svala has her own rooms, as you know, since you share them with her. She would have no need to stay here.”

“But you love her,” the girl snapped at him defiantly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And she loves you. Isn’t that what people who love each other do? Sleep in the same bed?”

He could feel the blood rush to his face. _Love_?? Had Svala said something to her? Had he been that obvious? Not that he loved Svala, he just fancied her... “Sofie. Go. Now.”

The girl went running off and Ulfric finished readying himself, walking in fast strides to the throne room. Jorleif was waiting for him with an anxious expression that instantly filled the Jarl with dread. “What is it?”

“My Jarl, the Butcher has struck again. Ulundil has reported his wife Arivanya missing to the local guard.”

Instantly, Ulfric knew at once that Svala had gotten herself tangled up in this Butcher mess. Find Arivanya and her captor, and he would find the Dragonborn; he was sure of it. “Assemble the best members of the guard and any Stormcloaks we can spare. I want them to tear Windhelm apart to find them.” _Before it is too late,_ a small voice in the back of his mind nagged.

“Them, my Jarl?” Jorleif asked with confusion. “Has the Butcher taken someone else, or do you mean the man himself?”

“Nay,” Ulfric shook his head, debating if he should join his men in the search. “I have reason to think Svala might be with them.”

* * *

One of the positives about having dragon blood, Svala was coming to realize, was that poisons filtered through her body more quickly than it did for others. Within a short span of time, she could feel sensation beginning to return to her toes, which she wiggled inside her boots. Slowly, her leg muscles loosened as well, though she continued to lie immobile on the floor, watching as Calixto hovered over Arivanya. The Bosmer still lay unconscious, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Corrium had taken his time with her, spreading a foul smelling paste over her nude form. However, armed with an ancient Nordic embalming tool, he at last seemed ready to continue with whatever ritual he was conducting.

“Pay attention now, Dragonborn,” he called over his shoulder to Svala. She blanched at the title. “You know me?”

The necromancer laughed darkly, slicing into the Bosmer woman’s thigh. Arivanya shifted slightly but still did not wake. “Of course. Power recognizes power, you see, and I could sense yours the second you approached me in the cemetery. Besides, everyone in Windhelm now knows the Dragonborn has joined the Stormcloak ranks.”

Discreetly, she shifted her arms around the meager bindings Calixto had trapped her in. He really was terrible at tying knots- she would be able to free her wrists in no time. Still, she needed the element of surprise, lest he poison her again and hastily kill Arivanya in the process. She needed to keep him talking. “Then you know it is foolish to try and best me.”

Corrium shrugged, peeling a flesh of tanned skin from the woman in front of him. “I’m not the one who’s tied up.”

“Not completely tied,” Svala smirked. Summoning her strength, she let the shout burst forth: “ _Fus Ro Dah!”_

Calixto didn’t even have time to register his fatal mistake. The blast knocked the Imperial off his feet and sent him crashing against the wall, Arivanya’s body slipping off the altar. However, the shock was enough to wake her from whatever spell Calixto had her under, and she awoke blearily with horror spreading on her features. Svala, who had been able to break the rope binding her wrists and ankles through sheer strength, had leapt to her feet and sprung towards her, but Corrium was quicker, grabbing the elf and pulling her against him. He held the embalming tool to her throat, a warning for Svala not to approach any further.

“Shout again and she dies,” He snarled.

The mad glint of his eyes in the firelight instantly transported her back to Cyrodiil, as though she were watching herself and Trearil from outside of her body. Trearil, advancing on her with a blade in his hands, as she was chained helpless to the wall...

_“Even if we must part, sweetness, I will leave you this souvenir to remember me.” His smile was madness personified as he raised the blade in front of her eyes, pressing it against her face and dragging it downwards toward her chin. She screamed in pain, feeling the flesh on her face split open, the magic in the blade ensuring that it would be a wound that would never fully heal. Fury overtook her, feeling like liquid fire coursing through her veins, until it burst forth into pure energy._

_The next time she screamed, it was flames erupting from her throat instead of sound._

_Trearil stepped backwards, looking terrified for the first time since she had the misfortune of knowing him. Fire continued to pour out of her, now emanating from every pore on her being, leaving her to appear more like a flame atronach than human. The flames rushed toward the Altmer, threatening to swallow him whole. He cast a protective ward around himself, but it was no use- fire ate through the elvish magic, licking the side of his face. Trearil screeched in pain, a hand clasping against his melting flesh. When he pulled his hand away, melted skin and sinew came with it. Svala barely recognized him calling for reinforcements as she stepped towards him, feeling her power grow within her as the flames encompassing her body also grew and pulsed in time. She would roast him alive for all he had done to her..._

_Half a dozen Thalmor soldiers appeared in front of her then, all casting frost at her. At first, her fire melted away their ice spells quickly, but there were too many of them, and they too powerful. She could feel her body begin to seize in cold, the fire slowly melting away, until she was left before them as flesh once more, turning blue with cold. She fell to her knees and gasped as her vision swam before all went black._

As Svala returned to herself, she was surprised to see Arivanya cowering in fear on the floor, her arms wrapped around her naked shivering body, hands pressed against the gashes of missing skin as blood pooled beneath the gaps between her fingers. She stared at Svala, her eyes wide with terror. Calixto was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?” Svala asked wildly, spinning around with her weapon drawn. “Did he flee?”

The elf shook her head, too traumatized to speak. Instead, she pointed with a shaking finger to a small pile of ash on the floor in front of her.

The amulet of necromancy lay blackened on top of the smoldering ashes.


	14. Fourteen

Ulfric didn’t have to worry for long- hours later, Svala came strolling into the palace with a bloodied Bosmer woman on her hip.

“Wuunferth!” She shouted, struggling to support the wounded elf’s weight. “I need help! Quickly!”

Ulfric was already strolling towards her, ready to assist. The mage came rushing into the great hall seconds later followed by Sofie at his heels, who gasped upon seeing her guardian covered in blood. He too was wondering just how much of that blood belong to Arivanya and how much was Svala’s own. “Give her here,” Wuunferth said gently, gingerly taking the woman from Svala’s grasp. “I will do what I can for her. Are you hurt as well, my lady?”

“No,” Svala answered, dazed. Her face was even paler than usual, Ulfric realized. How badly was she injured? He wanted to command Wuunferth to examine her, but didn’t want to frighten the child who had wrapped herself around Svala’s leg. “I’m alright, Sofie,” she told the girl quietly, stroking her hair absentmindedly. “It’s okay.”

“Mala, I was so scared you wouldn’t come back!” the girl wept into Svala’s armor. He felt as though he were intruding on something private (which was rather ridiculous considering it was _his_ palace) but still he cleared his throat to get the woman’s attention. Her head snapped up at him, green eyes vacant.

“Are you hurt?” Ulfric asked her quietly. She shook her head. “What happened?”

“Sofie, go to our room,” Svala said prying the child from her. “I promise I will see you later, but first I must speak with Jarl Ulfric.” She sniffled and obeyed (much to Ulfric’s surprise) but not before telling her guardian just how much he had “worried” about her.

That child was too damn mouthy for her own good. “I didn’t worry,” he told Svala immediately once Sofie was out of earshot. “I merely assembled the guard because Ulundil had reported his wife missing. It is my duty as Jarl.” Why was he explaining himself? From the bemused look on Svala’s face, she seemed to think the same. “Why did you go after a murderer of women _alone_?”

“To attract less attention,” she told him casually. She still had that haunted look on her face and Ulfric didn’t care for it all. “The Butcher was Calixto Corrium, by the way. He was killing women for some kind of necromancy ritual. That abandoned house near the Shatter-Shield’s place was his lair.”

“Hjerim?” Svala nodded. “That was Friga Shatter-Shield’s home. She was one of the Butch- _Corrium’s_ victims.”

“Which reminds me,” she continued, placing a small leather pouch in front of Ulfric. “I know you said you wanted him alive, but that wasn’t really possible.”

“ _That’s_ Calixto?” his voice rose in disbelief. He turned the pouch upside down, emptying it upon the table. Only ashes spilled out. What had she _done_ to him? Not that Ulfric felt any pity for the vile Imperial, but he was still curious on how he had gone from corpse to dust. “Will you tell me how he became to be this way?”

Her face was impassive. “I don’t remember,” she told him in an expressionless voice. “You should ask Arivanya once she’s recovered.”

Ulfric longed to take her in his arms, to kiss and comfort her, but he settled instead on placing a hand upon her shoulder. “You have done me, and the people of Windhelm, a great service.” Svala merely nodded staring blankly at the floor. “But I hope it did not come at too great a cost.”

She laughed bitterly. “I am a monster, my Jarl. Killing is what I am destined to do, it seems.”

He frowned, moving his hand to her chin and forcing her to meet his eyes. “You are _not_ a monster, Svala. You are the most lovely, passionate, fiercest woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet.” A pretty pink blush colored her cheeks and life seeped back into her green eyes. “As for your destiny, I suppose it is no one’s business but yours on what it contains.”

She laughed again, still harsh and angry sounding. “You know _nothing_ , Ulfric. Hell, I’ve sworn my own life away to you and your war, or have you forgotten?” She was leaning into him now, they were so close their noses could touch. Her breath ghosted across his lips. “You know, these honeyed words are rather wasted on me. If you wanted me in your bed, all you had to do was ask.” Her hand was on his thigh. She was baiting him, trying to distract him. He was ashamed to find it was working.

“I want more than that,” Ulfric found himself saying. It surprised even him.

She smiled sweetly at him, as though pitying him, before capturing his lips once more with hers. It was not as sweet as the first time they kissed, no. This time Ulfric would not have her fleeing from him; the thought of losing her had shaken him more than he cared to admit. He closed his arms around her, crushing her to his chest, as he kissed her fiercely. She responded in kind nipping at his lips, hands entangled in his blonde hair and pulling roughly. “Take me to bed,” her voice purred in his ear as her teeth grazed his earlobe. “ _Please_ my Jarl.”

Ulfric lifted her into his arms, surprised at her weight; she was honestly heavier than she looked, or had he just grown weaker in his old age? Still, he carried her to his rooms, their lips still moving as one. Once inside, he tossed her softly upon the bed, kicked the door closed, and went to work removing her cuirass and trousers, lips attacking each new patch of bare flesh he discovered. “More,” she gasped as his had covered her bare breast, squeezing lightly. It was large enough that it filled his entire palm, he noted with satisfaction. She moaned, lifting her hips against him. Ulfric smiled wolfishly down at her before struck with a sudden inspiration. Carefully, he took her arms and placed them behind her head, fishing for some leather strips from his nightstand with his other hand. Panic flashed across Svala’s face.

“Be still,” he told her softly. “If it becomes too much, or you wish to stop, you need only say the word. I will never force you. I will never hurt you. I swear this to you.”

She swallowed, her eyes still wide, before nodding once. Desire erupted in Ulfric at the trust she placed in him, even stronger than it had been a moment ago, and he felt his cock strain against his trousers as he tied her to his bed. “Trust me,” he told her before placing his lips to her neck, mouthing the fresh wound he found there, running his tongue over the broken skin. She gasped, squirming against her bonds. His lips trailed down the expanse of her neck to her collarbone, down the swell of her breast to where it enclosed around a nipple. Her loud moan caused him to thrust against her instinctively, feeling the damp heat reverberating from her center. “You’re so wet,” he said against her skin, gently brushing against slickness with a finger. Svala moaned again, hips jerking to meet his finger. “You want me, just as bad as I want you, don’t you?”

She refused to answer, biting her lower lip and staring at him with smoldering eyes. That wouldn’t do. Without warning, Ulfric shoved his finger inside of her. She clenched around him, howling at the sudden sensation. Still, she wouldn’t answer his question, her green eyes blazing intensely in defiance at him. He slipped another finger inside of her, scissoring them, spreading her open. He would need to prepare her _thoroughly_ if she were to to take his cock; many women had found it to be too much for them (another reason why he had started favoring whores). But watching as Svala panted and ground against his hand, a third finger joining the other two, Ulfric didn’t think that she would have any problems.

He trailed his lips from her nipples down the expanse of her torso, to her stomach, to just above her mound. She thrashed more wildly, trying to press his face to where she wanted it most. “Please,” she moaned, her eyes nearly black with lust. He grinned at her before moving his mouth over her, his prominent nose brushing against the tuft of auburn curls. He blew on her wetness lightly, watching as she yelped in surprise and arched her back. “Ulfric!”

“Patience, little dovah,” he purred at her before enclosing his lips over her slit. He lapped at her wetness, eyes rolling back in his head at her sweetness. Talos, she was better than any mead he had ever had. He could get drunk on her heady taste alone it was so intoxicating. Svala was screeching and fisting at his head, pulling the wheat colored strands by the roots. It only spurred him on more, and he lightly ran his teeth over her tiny bundle of nerves. Her thighs clasped together around his head, squeezing him tightly (he was sure to have a hell of a headache later) as she came apart, more of her sweet nectar bursting on his tongue. She collapsed against the pillows, breathily heavily, looking down at him as though she wanted to devour him. She reached for him, her hands trying to find his cock, but he swatted her away. “No. There will be plenty of time for that; for now, I need to be inside you.” Truthfully, he knew if she touched him he would burst like a youth and he would rather die than find completion outside of her.

“Then what are you waiting for?” She smirked at him, challenging him, pulling his face to hers and kissing him vigorously. Ulfric knew that she would be able to taste herself upon his tongue and the thought alone made him throb. He quickly discarded himself of his clothes before kneeling before her on the bed, pressing her legs as far apart as he could. He could see her staring at his impressive cock, her eyes slightly wider than they were a minute ago. “Bear of Markarth indeed,” she hummed to herself, licking her lips in want. Divines, was she _trying_ to get him to cum??

He held his cock in his fist, stroking it a few times, moaning loudly at the sensation. He was already so close, he knew he wouldn’t last long once he entered her. As much as he wanted to savor it, take his time with her and make her come undone around him as many times as she could stand, this first time would have to be quick and brutal. He wouldn’t be able to be gentle- he wanted her too badly. He positioned his cock at her entrance, running it up and down her slit, feeling the head brush against her clit which made her gasp. His eyes locked with hers, he saw the want and the trust within her gaze, and without warning he pushed inside of her.

Svala screamed, in pleasure or in pain Ulfric wasn’t completely sure. “Breathe,” he told her through gritted teeth, trying not to spill. Dibella’s tits she felt _amazing_ , so hot and warm like damp silk. He could feel his legs shaking with the restraint it took to stay still, to give her time to adjust to his girth.

After a few painful seconds, she nodded at him, pushing her hips up and down his length erratically. “ _Move,”_ she commanded him, and it took him a moment to realize she said it in the dragon tongue. He pulled out of her completely before snapping his hips back to meet hers, and this time there was no mistaking that the sound she made was one of pleasure. “Harder!” Ulfric’s teeth found the junction of where her neck met her shoulder as he pumped his hips in and out of her brutally, feeling his own orgasm approaching faster than he would’ve liked. However, with each thrust, he could feel her quim tightening around him, and he knew that it wouldn’t take her long to finish once more. His thumb brushed against her clit a few times and then she was spasming around his cock with a broken wail of his name, her nails scratching his back so hard he wondered if she drew blood. With one last powerful thrust inside her, he felt his own release crash into him so hard that it stole his breath.

As his wits returned to him, Ulfric pulled outside of Svala and rolled onto his side, breathing heavily. He couldn’t ever remember it being that good, with anyone. Given the dazed and blissful expression on her face, he only hoped that she felt the same. He pulled her to his sweaty chest, realizing that at some point she had broken the leather bindings that tied her to the bed. “Did you really think you could chain a dragon?” She teased him when she saw him frowning at the tattered cording that remained wrapped around her wrists. “I could’ve always broken out of it, but I let you have your fun.”

Ulfric harrumphed, swiping a finger around her sensitive channel, before showing her the creamy essence of their pleasure mixing. “I believe I wasn’t the only one enjoying myself, dovahkiin.”

“How was I supposed to know you have a tree trunk for a cock?” She lightly slapped his breast before enclosing her lips around his finger and sucking it clean. This woman would be the absolute _death_ of him. Ulfric could feel his cock trying to stir and he rewarded her with a gentle swat to her bottom. She gasped and giggled all at once.

A few moments passed between them in comfortable silence, with her lying on his chest and him running a hand through her mussed tresses. He could feel himself growing drowsy, and from the even pattern of her breathing, wondered if Svala had already succumbed to sleep herself. Ulfric murmured her name only to be answered with a light snore. He smiled, feeling more peaceful than he had in years, before placing a light kiss to her temple and joining her in slumber.

* * *

“My Jarl? Galmar has returned and wishes an audience with you at once.”

Ulfric groaned and rolled over, reaching blindly for the warmth of Svala’s body next to him and pulling her tightly against him. She murmured within her sleep but did not stir, instead nuzzling her cheek against his bare flesh. An amulet of Talos was tangled in her hair; he carefully extracted it and laid it between her breasts. It seemed to be made of dragon bone. She probably carved it herself. “Tell him he can wait. I’m occupied.”

“I’m afraid he says it is urgent, my Jarl. It is about Jarl Elisif the Fair.”

He would have that guard’s head on a stake if Ulfric heard his annoying voice once more. Still, if Elisif was calling on him, it could mean a turning point in the war. Reluctantly, he placed a last lingering kiss to Svala’s temple before wrapping her in the blankets and dressing himself. He found Galmar pacing within the war room, his face purple with rage. Lovely. Ulfric’s morning was improving second by second. “Ah, good to see you in one piece, my friend. How was your journey?”

“Damn faithless Imperials keep besting us!” Galmar snapped at him, bypassing small talk. “Every time we try to take a fort, they’re there before us. They have more coin and more resources- we need to a put a halt on their communications or we don’t stand a chance.”

Ulfric sighed. How he wished he was still in bed with Svala... “What we need is an advantage. Is there a Jarl or a court member we could...persuade to see things our way?”

“How would killing a Jarl help?” Galmar snarled. Ulfric rolled his eyes. Subtlety was not one of his friend’s strong suits. “Oh...you mean...blackmail? Who? Do you have dirt on someone?”

“I have a hunch,” Ulfric said, staring daggers at the war map. He pointed to Markarth, his former home. “Raerek was always too cautious for a steward. A man is not that careful unless he has something to hide, no?”

Galmar nodded, brows furrowing as he thought. “But what if you’re wrong? What if he’s just a cowardly old fool?”

Ulfric smiled darkly. “Then we _give_ him something to hide.” He held up his own amulet of Talos from its resting place around his thick neck. “I do not believe his Imperial-loving nephew would care to have a rebel serving him so closely, do you?”

Galmar’s bellowing laugh echoed in the stillness of the early morning palace. “Very clever, Ulfric. We’ll just need to find the right recruit for such a sensitive mission.”

He nodded. He knew exactly who could perform such a task. “Bone-Breaker should do it. She is...familiar in such areas.”

“Bone-Breaker?” Galmar stared at him blankly. “Wait... _Ice-Veins?_ She came back?! You mean to tell me that she _deserted_ and you _promoted_ her??”

Ulfric held up a hand to silence the tirade he knew was coming. “She was off finding the Jagged Crown. Captain Ralof should confirm.”

Instantly, Galmar erupted into deep laughter once more. “You owe me a drink! Don’t think I’ve forgotten!”

He nodded, chuckling along with his friend. “Aye, but only _after_ we win. Now, I believe you had me so rudely awoken because of Elisif? What does she want?”

All traces of laughter died from Galmar’s face at once. “Ah. That. She sent a courier to camp- she’s offering her hand to you in order for a swift end to the war. Some kind of treaty, I assume.”

“She’s _what?”_ Ulfric was stunned. He slumped into a chair, his head spinning. He had _killed_ Elisif’s husband, was attempting to usurp her crown, and she was _willingly_ offering herself to him? No. There had to be a catch. “I don’t suppose she outlined all the terms for you, did she.”

Galmar shook his head. “No. But her correspondence did say she’d be making the trip here in a few moons. I assume she’ll want to tell you herself.” Ulfric frowned. He did not like this at all. “Look, Ulfric, if I can speak plainly-“

“When do you not?”

“It’s a good offer,” Galmar finished, ignoring his Jarl. “We’re running out of men and they’re getting _tired_. Morale is at an all time low and even if this little scheme of yours with Raerek pans out, that’s only buying us time. This dragon threat is putting everyone’s teeth on edge and there’s just not an appetite for war like there once was. I’d consider it, if I were you.”

Ulfric knew he was right, but that didn’t change the feeling in his gut that something was off. Besides, him, marry, _Elisif_? No. He would not take one woman for his wife while his thoughts were with another. However, instead of voicing this to Galmar, he merely nodded and kept silent. He would turn Elisif down when she came to him- such matters were above Galmar’s station.

“Hey where’d you-“ He froze. Galmar froze. Svala, who had appeared in the doorway from the upstairs entrance (clad only in one of his tunics which ended around mid thigh on her, much to Ulfric’s mixed horror and delight) froze. Her long, auburn hair was clearly mussed from sleep and...other activities. “Oh. Shit.” She offered a halfhearted salute to Galmar.

For a few awful, tense, moments no one spoke. Then Galmar chuckled darkly, shaking his head at Ulfric. “I trust your discretion,” Ulfric said quietly, refusing to meet his eyes. “This was unexpected, and a one time affair.” He hoped that Galmar would believe that, and Svala would not.

“Your choices are your own, Ulfric,” Galmar’s gravelly voice said evenly. “And I have always respected that. Even if I think you’re being incredibly _stupid_ and listening only to your cock, I respect your decisions.” He turned his attention to Svala, who seemed to be trying to disappear into the floor. If she would only look at him, he would try to convey to her that he was lying to Galmar... “And you- if you think this will give you _any_ special treatment, you’re as big a fool as he is. Now suit up and get your things; you’ve got a job in Markarth.”

“Yes sir,” Svala whispered, bolting out of the room without giving Ulfric a second glance. He ran a hand down the side of his face, hoping that he hadn’t ruined everything with her.


	15. Fifteen

Svala couldn’t have left Windhelm fast enough.

She threw some weapons, her Guild armor, and a few healing potions and poisons that Sofie had given her into a bag, too angry to care. Was Ulfric _ashamed_ of her? She should’ve known better, she should’ve been able to see through his poetry to the truth within. He only wanted the Dragonborn, only wanted to secure her loyalty through any means necessary, just like any other man would. But no, give her a strong pair of arms and a dashing smile, and she apparently lost her intelligence. “Mala?”

She whirled around to see Sofie stirring in her tiny bed. She wiped her eyes before realization set in as she saw the packed bag Svala clutched in her fist. “Mala, are we leaving?”

Mala. What a ridiculous title Sofie had given her. The first time she had called her “mama” Svala had nearly vomited in panic. She had forbidden Sofie from ever calling her that again, and instead of being upset (Svala surely thought tears would follow) the girl had scrunched up her face in concentration before suggesting, “What about Mala? It’s mama and your name together. And nobody else will know what it means but you and me!” And at that point, Svala knew she was lost, and had agreed.

She felt in a similar state watching poor Sofie beginning to pack herself. “Sofie...you’re not coming.”

The girl did not stop. “Master Wuunferth gave me some spell tomes and potion recipes so I can help heal you after your battles. Maybe I can help the other soldiers too! I think that would make Papa Ulfric happy.”

Papa Ulfric?? “He’s not your father,” Svala snapped, instantly regretting the tone she had taken with the child. “He’s Jarl, Sofie. _Jarl_ Ulfric.”

“But he loves you and you love him and if you’re my Mala then he’s Papa Ulfric. I know he’s not my _real_ papa,” Sofie explained with an eye roll. Sometimes, Svala wondered if Sofie thought she was stupid. “And you didn’t call him Jarl last night.”

By the Nine, this girl was going to kill her from shame alone. Svala felt her face flush as red as her hair. Just how much had she heard? Talos, their chambers were a floor _below_ Ulfric’s. Had the whole palace heard?? Sofie was right- Svala was stupid. “That’s a secret and you can’t tell that to anyone else, ok?” Sofie nodded. “And I’m sorry, but you really can’t come. It’s too dangerous out there for you. You need to stay here and keep practicing your alchemy and your spells with Master Wuunferth so you can show me just how great you’ve gotten when I come back.”

“You’re leaving me,” Sofie said softly, dropping the small bag she had started to pack and slumping onto her bed. “You’re not going to come back.” Svala could hear the tell tale wobble in her voice that meant she was on the verge of tears.

“Hey,” she knelt so that she was eye level to the girl. Carefully, she removed the amulet of Talos from around her neck and looped it over Sofie’s head. “Do you know what this is?” the girl shook her head, sniffling. “This is an amulet of Talos. He was a man, just like Jarl Ulfric, but he was born special, like me. He had dragon’s blood in him too, just like I do, and was one of the only people who could kill dragons. I made this amulet from a dragon’s bone- one of the bones from the very first dragon I killed in Whiterun. I’ve worn it ever since and it’s kept me safe. I want you to hold onto it for me until I come back.” Remembering the finished dagger she had made for the child as well, Svala removed it from its sheath on her thigh and placed it on Sofie’s lap. “And this is not toy. It’s also made from dragon bone, and it will also keep you safe, but in a different way. I’ll teach you how to use it properly when-“

“When you come back,” Sofie finished for her, crying silently. With a whimper, she threw her small arms around Svala’s neck and hugged her tightly. Svala placed a kiss to her head feeling her heart crack. She fled as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to be off on a carriage to Markarth and to shove her sword through the throat of anyone that dare cross her.

Svala was nearly sprinting down the stone bridge out of Windhelm, but as she was passing the stables she heard a cry of her name. “Lady Svala! Er...I mean, Bone-Breaker! Wait!” Ulundil was chasing after her. She paused, resisting the urge to groan. She just wanted to leave, damnit. “I never got a chance to properly thank you for rescuing Arivanya.”

Svala wanted to laugh. It was by sheer luck that she hadn’t managed to burn the elf alive along with Calixto. Thankfully, the bosmer was still recovering and had yet to tell anyone of what she had seen. “It’s nothing. I’m here to serve the sons and daughters of Skyrim.”

Ulundil shook his head vigorously. “You don’t understand, you’re not like the others. Some of these Stormcloaks wouldn’t even lift a finger if they knew it was a mer missing. You care about us, _all_ of us.” She wanted to shake the man, to scream at him that it shouldn’t be that way, that she should be the rule not the exception. But all she could do was nod lamely at him and thank him once more. Still, however, he continued. “I want you to have our finest horse. We just got it from the stables in Riften so its coat is unique. I know you’re going back out into the war, and well, I’d feel better if you were riding a good strong war horse. Please, take it, as a token of Arivanya’s and my appreciation.”

Svala wanted to refuse, but time was dragging on and she was running out of patience. “Fine, I’ll take your horse. Now will you consider us even?”

“Only if a day comes where I can save the one you love,” Ulundil retorted with a cheeky grin.

“You’ll be waiting a long time then,” she muttered to herself before collecting the horse (a dapple grey stallion she had yet to name) and riding hard for Markarth.

* * *

Svala really hated Markarth.

For one, the city was a damn maze. There were so many stairs and different levels and all the stupid buildings looked the same that she was constantly just wandering around aimlessly trying to find her way. For another, the second she entered Markarth, she was witness to a murder. Some innocent woman was stabbed to death directly in front of her while the assassin shouted out something about the Forsworn. She wanted to stay out of it, but some stupid Breton came up to her, dropped a note at her feet, and then said “Oh, I think you dropped this. Some kind of note. Looks important.”

“I didn’t drop a note,” she told him icily, shoving the parchment back at him. “Maybe it’s yours.”

“My note? No that’s yours,” he argued with her, trying to hand it back to her. “Must’ve fallen out of your pocket.”

“Listen,” Svala growled, taking the man by the collar. “I am currently full up on quests, missions, and other high risk errands that may or may not result in my death. If you have some kind of issue in this damn Dwemmer city, you can find someone who lives here to do your dirty work for you.”

The Breton turned as pale as a Nord, nodding his head rapidly. “Of-of course, my mistake. Sorry to bother you.”

She ignored him, trying to figure out where exactly Understone Keep was. She didn’t want to ask the guards, lest she attract _more_ attention to herself (she was wearing her Guild armor but still, the less her presence was known in Markarth the better it would be) so she spent a while climbing up various steps and ramps until _finally_ spotting the large golden doors flanked by guards on either side. That had to be it. She burst through the entrance, bombarded with the sounds of barking dogs, pickaxes, and the constant hum of steam-driven Dwemmer technology. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about being quiet.

Svala had remembered Galmar’s instructions about where exactly Raerek’s room was located and his warning about a guard patrolling the area. “Try not to kill anyone,” he had snapped at her, still simmering with anger over her tryst with Ulfric. “And remember, if you don’t find an amulet in his drawer, you plant _this_ one. It’s inscribed.” It had taken all of her reserve not to roll her eyes at her commander then, because she had done enough shill jobs for Mercer to know how to pull one off correctly without being spoon fed through the process. Still, she had maintained her composure and accepted the task with a salute. However, Galmar’s warning was ultimately rendered useless; the guard was fast asleep at his post. She crept by him easily, picking the lock to the steward’s chamber in her first try.

Raerek was snoring lightly on his stone bed (third reason she hated Markarth- who in Tamriel could find comfort sleeping on stone??) while she unlocked his beside table. To her surprise and luck, the steward already had an amulet of Talos buried within a false bottom in the drawer, inscribed with his name. She clenched it in her fist before roughly shoving the older Nord awake.

“Recognize this?” She asked him smugly as his bleary eyes focused on her. She had to give him a bit of credit- the old man didn’t seem scared, just inconvenienced.

He sighed. “I suppose you want to extort something from me, is that it? Well, what is it you want?”

Svala figured it would be better to try and play nicely...at first. “If you believe in Talos, why don’t you join our cause?”

“So,” disgust colored Raerek’s features. “You’re one of Ulfric’s spies. I can’t deny the man is right about a few things...but I’ve seen first hand what Ulfric is capable of, given the chance.” Svala bristled at that; even though she had her own issues with Ulfric at present, the Thalmor were more to blame for the Markarth Incident than Ulfric was. Still, she let Raerek continue, remaining silent and swallowing down her anger. “Suffice to say, he is no friend to Markarth, and no friend of mine. My first and only loyalties are to my nephew, and this city.”

“What if this were made public?”

“The Thalmor would need to make an example of me...I’d be thrown into prison, but our family’s honor would be stained for generations.” She knew all too well what the Thalmor would do to him if she were to expose him, and honor would be the _least_ of Raerek’s worries. “I’m the Jarl’s Uncle. He, his father, and I, swore oaths to the Empire to abandon Talos as conditions to return to the city.”

“Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement, then?” She asked him sweetly. Raerek eyed her warily before nodding. “What if I told you about a large shipment of silver and weapons?”

She stifled a grin- jackpot. “Go on. I’m listening.”

The steward shook his head. “Oh no, I won’t tell you anything more until we have an agreement.”

She wanted to point out that she very much had the upper hand, or could simply intimidate the man through force, but settled on asking him, “How much are we talking about?”

“Enough to make a significant difference in the war.” Raerek answered tightly.

Svala decided to press her luck. “And...what about something for me, right now?”

“Well I...I suppose I’m not left much choice in the matter, am I?” He was eyeing her with naked hate. It was an expression she had gotten very accustomed to seeing directed at her. “Very well. I trust a hefty purse of septims will suffice?”

She accepted the coin with a smile. Raerek really was an easy mark; put a little pressure on him and he caved so nicely. If only she were still active in the Guild, she could’ve cleaned up here. “Alright, it’s a deal. Where can I find this shipment?”

“They’re taking it by wagon to Solitude. If you hurry, you’ll catch them before they get far. It’ll be a fairly slow moving caravan. The shipment is quite heavy, and guarded by many men. Now,” He gave her one last withering glance before returning to his uncomfortable bed. “Let’s pretend we never had this discussion.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” She quipped, tossing his amulet back to him. She strolled out of Understone Keep whistling, her purse significantly heavier than it had been when she arrived. Svala then collected her horse from the stable and began the long ride back to the Reach camp, eager to shove her success in Galmar’s face. However, hours later when she finally arrived, the general was as ill-tempered as ever and her own high spirits were quickly dwindling.

“Good, you managed to follow orders for once,” He told her dismissively as she reported to him. “I’ve already got a scouting party out in the field near the area where that wagon should be. Go meet them and bring back the goods.” At no point did he actually look at her. She had had _enough_.

“I am no whore,” Svala had no idea she was going to speak until the words had already tumbled out of her mouth. “I am both Bone-Breaker _and_ the Dragonborn. You will treat me with the respect I deserve.”

It seemed as though Galmar couldn’t settle on surprise or rage when he addressed her next. “I am your superior, whelp, and I owe you _nothing_. And if you don’t think yourself a whore, I would suggest keeping your legs closed and not behaving like a whore does.” He glowered at her for a moment before continuing his speech, “You don’t realize the damage you’ve done, do you? You put Ulfric at risk. He needs a proper wife for the Moot, damnit, someone who can give him heirs and a stable life. And that will never happen if he’s too distracted with _you_.”

“Ulfric is a grown man,” she replied through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to shout Galmar off the nearest cliff. “And he’s going to be _king_. I’m sure that gives him the authority to fuck who he wants.” The comment about a proper wife had stung her more than she wanted to admit, but she would be damned if she would let it show. “And in case you’ve forgotten, he’s leading a _war_ against the _Empire_. He’s already at risk.”

Galmar laughed bitterly at her. “You know _exactly_ what I mean, wench. He genuinely cares for you, even if you’re too blind to see it. And I would wager that you don’t feel an ounce for him of what he does for you. Not only have I sworn my service and life to the man, but I also count him among my kin and I won’t let you trifle with his emotions during this little...power play of yours.”

That did it. “ _Fus!”_ She shouted and the blast knocked Galmar off his feet and into the hide of tent. The material came crashing down around him, and he floundered around on the ground as he tried to free himself, swearing at her all the while. Svala ignored him, grabbing her horse and riding hard down the road, ignoring the stunned looks and whispers of the other Stormcloaks.

At least no one would be able to see her cry as she rode.


	16. Sixteen

The palace seemed emptier without her in it.

Ulfric scowled at himself- it had only been a fortnight and he was already pining after Svala like a damn bard. He was growing soft the more time he spent away from the battlefield. Still, Galmar refused to let him see action (the old fool had actually threatened to cripple him before he’d let Ulfric fight) so he busied himself with taking a more active role in governing Windhelm. It had become clear to him that Bone-Breaker had known more about the city’s day to day than its own Jarl, and that was something he couldn’t let stand.

First matters first, he needed to take care of the damn Arentino orphan who was trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood. Sending the child back to Honorhall with its current headmistress would surely end badly- either the child would attempt to kill the crone himself, or he would just escape and find his way back to the city where he would ultimately succeed in capturing an assassin’s attention. Noticing that Sofie had become rather taciturn and sparse since her “mala’s” absence (maybe a companion her own age would cheer her up), and that Sifnar was getting up in years and could use assistance, Ulfric thought it only best to kill two birds with one stone and invite the child to serve as the cook’s apprentice in exchange for room and board. He sent one of his more matronly Stormcloak guards to fetch the boy along with a letter he had penned himself. A few short days later Aventus was serving him Snowberry marmalade in his quarters with a beaming grin and a thousand gratitudes.

Sofie, however, wanted nothing to do with him. He had tried talking to her, once, a few short days after Svala’s departure. The girl had merely glared at him and shouted, “Go away! I hate you forever and ever!” Wuunferth had immediately scolded her but Ulfric held no malice towards the lass. In her mind, he had sent away the closest thing she had to a mother, possibly for good. If anything, it only made him fonder of the child; she was developing all the fire and bravado of her guardian. Even though she looked nothing like Svala, Sofie was definitely her child. He would occasionally see her practicing on the training dummies outside the palace with her little dragon bone blade, her braid swinging fiercely to and fro behind her. One day, Ulfric vowed, he would have to teach her how to use it properly.

Next, Ulfric had taken it upon himself to name Svala Thane of Eastmarch. Normally, she would have to have purchased land within his hold to be granted the title, but given the service she had done for his people by slaying the Butcher he thought an exception was in order. He ordered Jorleif to put Hjerim in Svala’s name (and to also clean up the mess the murderer had left behind) before decorating the home fully to accommodate herself, Sofie, and Calder (her new housecarl). While Ulfric had ordered most of her possessions to be sent over to Hjerim by servants, he found himself in her chambers one day to retrieve something...sensitive.

He had meant to destroy the dossier the Thalmor had on him directly after Svala had told him of its existence, but he had found himself rather...preoccupied in the days that followed. For a while it slipped his mind, until one day he received a report that the Dominion had sent an increased number of Thalmor operatives to patrol Riften (why was unknown), and then suddenly the existence of that little red book was the only thing he cared about. He had nearly destroyed her chambers in his panic to find the journal until his hand brushed against something else within the bottom dresser drawer.

An amulet of Mara.

In his lap, Ulfric held both the dossier and the necklace. He had already read the damn tome a dozen or so times and could likely recite its contents by heart, but even still he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

_Operational Notes:_

_Direct contact remains a possibility (under extreme circumstances), but in general the asset should be considered dormant. As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off. The incident at Helgen is an example where an exception had to be made- obviously Ulfric’s death would have dramatically increased the chance of an Imperial victory and thus harmed our overall position in Skyrim. (NOTE: The coincidental intervention of the dragon at Helgen is still under scrutiny. The obvious conclusion is that whoever is behind the dragons also has an interest in the continuation of the war, but we should not assume therefore that their goals align with our own). A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed._

They were toying with him, trying to use him like a puppet. After everything Elenwen and her damn torturers had put him through, the elves _still_ found a way to hurt him. For a moment, Ulfric tried to imagine if this was how Svala felt, but then remembered that they had taken even _more_ from her and became enraged all over again. He _would_ win this war and he _would_ cut off the head of the Dominion or he would reach Sovngarde trying.

Watching the flames flicker in the hearth of his room, Ulfric still clutched the amulet tightly in his fist. Had she been wearing this in his presence and he had been too blind to notice? Or had she been waiting for the perfect moment to wear the pendant? If it was even for him. Ulfric felt sick, imagining her wearing the amulet and nothing else, her soft naked curves on display- all for another. Was it Ralof? They had spent time together after Helgen, and they had retrieved the Jagged Crown for him together...alone... His mind spun wild with different scenarios that only helped to darken his mood.

With a roar, he tossed the book into the fireplace and slipped the amulet into the locked chest at the foot of his bed.

* * *

“Hey there! I was wondering if I’d run into you out here!”

“Hi Ralof,” Svala said trying to mask her exhaustion. She had ridden through the night after leaving camp, just in case Galmar wanted to catch her to retaliate. “Thought you were up in Hjaalmarch?”

“I was called back down here,” he shrugged with his trademark easy going smile. “Besides, the Reach is a beautiful but dangerous place, eh? One false step and you fall to your death, that is if those Forsworn don’t get you first. Have you seen one of those Briarheart men? That’s some evil magic right there.” She must’ve had a skeptical look on her face for Ralof chuckled and added, “Though I suppose it’s nothing to someone who makes a habit of slaying dragons. So what brings you? You have the look of purpose in your eyes.”

“There’s an enemy wagon loaded with coin and weapons. We need to capture it.” She shielded her eyes from the sunshine, trying to scout ahead up the hillside.

“Really? It just so happens we’ve been tracking a wagon! For about a day now. So that’s what’s in there? Coins and weapons?” He eyed her suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

She smiled mischievously at him. “I blackmailed Raerek for the information.” Ralof laughed, shaking his head at her. “Well, that was crafty. I’m sure having a steward in the pocket will come in handy. Lucky for us, that wagon recently had a little...accident. They’re stranded now. Just up the road!”

Perfect. Her fingers thumbed the pommel of her sword, ready for a fight. “So what’s the plan?”

“First we’re going to take out their sentry, then we’ll situate ourselves overlooking the camp. Next, you’ll infiltrate their position and get their attention while we hit them with a barrage of arrows. With a bit of luck, we’ll catch them completely off guard and even the odds a little.” She had stopped listening midway through, instead climbing a rock to use as a vantage point. Her dragon blood must’ve granted her better vision as well for she could just make out the shape of the crashed wagon on the side of the road.

“I have a better plan,” Svala had already unsheathed her swords and was beginning to stroll back towards the convoy. “You wait here, and I’ll take care of it.”

Some of Ralof’s men scoffed at her. Even the Captain himself seemed slightly uneasy with her attitude, though he knew better than to try and argue with her. “All right, if you insist. But we’ll come running if it sounds like things have gotten out of hand.”

She rolled her eyes before sneaking into the tree line, careful to stay out of sight. Like Ralof himself had said, she stayed _dragons_ on a (semi) regular basis now. Surely she could handle 8 or so Imperials without a fuss. The first sentry was overlooking the wreckage on the small cliffside. She slit his throat while his back was turned and descended on two other soldiers before they had time to even realize she was there, sinking her swords into their skulls. By this point, there would be no more sneaking- the other members of the convoy were rushing at her in earnest now with their weapons drawn.

“ _Krill!”_ She shouted, watching as the soldiers staggered backwards, an eerie purple glow spreading like spiderwebs up their veins. Slowly the Shout would poison them, draining their life force and making them weaker and more vulnerable to attack. The Shout wasn’t as powerful as it could be (she only knew one word of it) but it was enough to buy her time. Using speed to her advantage, Svala whirled out of the path of mace being swung at her and slashed wildly, disemboweling one. One of the Imperials (still slightly glowing purple) swung a battle axe to her right- she dove into a roll before burying her steel into his back. Only 3 archers remained, trying to slow her from a safe distance. She flung her dagger at one, where it found its mark within the forehead of one archer, and then went into a zig zag sprint towards the other two. Since her path wasn’t straight arrows harmlessly flew by her, and by the time the archers could reload, she made quick work of slicing them both in half.

After, as she stood panting surrounded by corpses, feeling their cooling blood on her face, all Svala could feel was...hollow. Anger and disappointment still simmered beneath the surface. Normally a good fight made her at least feel better, if only somewhat. Perhaps there was a dragon around somewhere- nothing beat the feeling she got when absorbing a dragon’s soul. It was almost like a climax in its intensity and always sent her blood rushing.

“We make quite a team, eh?” Ralof called to her, running up the hill followed by his platoon. She grabbed a hide helmet off of one of the bodies and threw it at him in response. It landed a few feet in front of him, bouncing on the stone of the road. “I’ll stay here and guard the shipment. You get back to camp with the news. Have them send some men- with a new wagon. This one isn’t going anywhere.” The other Stormcloaks laughed loudly, still eyeing Svala warily- the was a healthy amount of fear in the way they approached her now. Good.

“Actually, you should be the one to go to camp,” Svala was already trying to break into one of the chests from the wagon. Damn lock was tricky- she had already gone through a few picks. “I may have Shouted at Galmar earlier so I doubt I’m his favorite person at the moment.”

“Shouted or... _shouted_?” Ralof asked her lowly, crouching by her side. When she didn’t respond he simply groaned. “Svala, you can’t just go using the thu’um on anyone who crosses you.”

“Now you sound like Arngeir,” she grumbled still fiddling with the lock. “I’m the Dragonborn, remember? Rules don’t apply to me.”

He sighed before commenting, “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you or am I going to have to force it out of you?”

“Like you could,” Svala retorted with a raise of her eyebrow. The chest popped open (finally, she had wasted 5 lock picks on the damn thing) and she instantly removed one the coin purses and placed it into her bag. “I’m fine, _Captain_. This is just my usual sunny disposition.”

“Svala...” Ralof began. She silenced him with an icy glare. She knew he meant well, but the last thing she needed was to start gushing about her feelings. Better to keep them locked up tight inside where they couldn’t poison her- she needed to be alert and on her guard at all times, after all. She had a job to do. “You know some nights when I close my eyes, I see a battle stretched out in front of me, like I’m still there...Do the men you’ve killed haunt you? Mine do.”

“Only a beast kills without feeling,” she answered him softly, knowing all too well what it felt like to be haunted by those she had slain- rather directly or indirectly. Ralof placed a friendly hand on her shoulder. She stiffened.

“If you try to kiss me I’ll punch you,” she growled in warning at him.

He laughed loudly at that. “You’re not really my type,” Svala raised another eyebrow at that. Hastily, Ralof continued, “No! Not like that. It’s just...er...well... _women_ aren’t my type.”

Ah. She smiled and gave him a friendly punch in the arm anyway. “Come on,” Ralof stood, offering her a hand up as well. “We’ll go give Galmar the news together; the whelps can watch the carriage. Then I say we scrounge up some mead- you look like you could use a drink.”

Svala couldn’t agree more.

* * *

“My Jarl, Jarl Elisif and Legate Rikke have just arrived in Windhelm. Will you receive them tonight?”

Ulfric wanted to groan. He knew Elisif was coming but the thought of entertaining her and Rikke (of all people) was enough to make him want to drink heavily. Hosting Elisif would be uncomfortable enough- he didn’t make a habit out of dining with widows he had created, but Rikke too? Talos be good, he had grown up with Rikke in Markarth. They had fought together, played together, even bedded each other (once, when they were both too green and inebriated to know what they were doing). He didn’t need a glaring reminder of an old friend’s betrayal on top of having to face Elisif’s simpering grief all night. Still, he had little choice. “Of course. I will be down in the great hall to greet them at once. Have Aventus bring us some mead and tell Sifnar to start plating the feast.”

Before leaving his chamber, however, Ulfric found himself slipping Svala’s amulet of Mara into his pocket. Even after he had discarded the amulet into his chest, he was unable to stop thinking about it (rather, her wearing it), and retrieved it instantly, keeping it on his person at all times. It had become a kind of talisman to him, he realized, a way of keeping her close to him when they were apart. Of course it was a ridiculous notion that had him feeling like a simpering fop- _Svala wasn’t his_. It shouldn’t matter to him where she was; she was just another member of his troops, nothing more. The sooner he learned that, the better, especially as he was about to dine with a woman who could very well become his future wife.

Elisif lived up to her name, that was true- she was fair. Light in skin with honey brown hair and soft green eyes, it was clear why many men would see her as desirable. Even Ulfric had to admit that bedding her wouldn’t be a chore should the need arise, but he wasn’t anxious to commit the act either. Rikke strolled behind her in full Imperial armor, stone faced as usual. “Jarl Elisif, Legate Rikke, allow me to welcome you to Windhelm. Please, join me for supper and warm yourselves by my hearth.” He tried to sound as charming as possible, and while Elisif smiled politely and tipped her head, Rikke was not so easily convinced.

“Ulfric, I think we’re all past pleasantries, don’t you?” Rikke said dryly, accepting the goblet of mead Aventus offered her. He noticed the child’s hands were shaking as he held the serving tray- poor lad’s eyes had grown as wide as saucers the second he saw Elisif enter the hall. Someone had a crush it seemed.

“What kind of Nord would I be if I did not offer my guests proper hospitality?” Ulfric retorted, taking his seat as head of the table before motioning to the women to do the same. “I am nothing without my honor, after all.”

“Honor?” Rikke barked a laugh. Elisif silenced her with a dangerous look.

“Ulfric, I trust Galmar relayed the reason for my visit to you,” Elisif’s voice was soft and sweet; she was the perfect picture of a noble lady (and Svala’s opposite in every way, though he tried not to dwell on that). “I am sure that you’re as anxious as I to discuss terms?”

Ulfric blanched, although he was confident that it would not show on his face. She made it sound as though he had already accepted. “I believe that sounds premature, don’t you my lady? This is merely a friendly conversation to further discuss the intentions of this...arrangement.”

“Intentions?” Rikke eyed him angrily. “Ulfric, the intention here is to end the damn war!” She pounded a fist angrily on the table top and Elisif blushed but did not stop the legate. “This madness of yours has gone on long enough. Skyrim _needs_ the Empire to survive! Surely you can put your own ego aside and see the greater picture?”

“To my knowledge, I thought Lady Elisif was offering her hand, not _you,_ Rikke,” He said coldly. “So I would hear the intentions of the woman who wishes to call herself my wife and queen before that of her guard dog.” He noticed that Rikke’s hand had instantly gone for her weapon as she glowered at him.

“Legate Rikke, leave us,” Elisif commanded quietly, placing a hand on Rikke’s shoulder. The warrior looked ready to bury her sword in Ulfric’s gut as she stood from the table, her face flushed in rage. Well, if she wanted a fight, he wouldn’t back down. He always could take Rikke in their youth- a few years would not make any difference. Still, Rikke obeyed, giving Ulfric one last venomous look as she made her exit. “Now we can speak freely.”

“I must admit,” He began, chewing his cut of venison slowly, and feeling relieved that Rikke was out of earshot. “I was rather surprised that you of all people were offering yourself to me, given our...history.”

“You killed my husband,” the Jarl of Solitude said plainly and emotionlessly. She sipped her wine as though they were discussing the weather. “It was an honorable challenge and Torygg lost. Such is the way of our people.”

“And you expect me to believe that you hold no ill will towards me?” Elisif shook her head. “Even if I could accept that, my lady, I would still not believe you were willingly giving yourself away. Tell me, is this something Tullius cooked up?”

“You think I would let General Tullius use me like a broodmare?” She raised her chin indignantly, pushing away her plate. “Ulfric, you insult _my_ honor. This truce was entirely my idea. While I admit, the idea of becoming your wife is still...foreign, to me, I am not unwilling.”

He wasn’t surprised by her hesitation- Torygg had been a young man who liked to think himself a warrior and a king, but was completely unprepared for the weight of those titles. Torygg would have never made it on a battlefield, he would’ve been too concerned with keeping his pretty face intact for his fair wife. She would probably be repulsed by countless scars lining his older physique and the deeds he had done to deserve some of them. “Am I not up to your standards, then, Elisif?” Ulfric asked lightly with a smirk. “Would you prefer someone younger to warm your bed?”

“I’ve often heard it said that Nords are like a good wine,” she answered airily with a coquettish smile. “They often are better with age.” Ulfric was surprised- so she wanted to toy with him, did she? She was willing to play the blushing maiden to get what she truly wanted?

“You want to be queen,” He said plainly, taking a large draft of his mead. Ulfric didn’t have the patience for her games. His other hand was enclosed tightly around the amulet of Mara within his pocket. He could feel the grooves of the metal biting into his palm, imprinting on his skin. “You want what you believe you are owed, what I’ve ‘stolen’ from you, is that it?”

“Not at all, Ulfric,” Elisif’s smile remained plastered on her pretty face. He found himself wondering when was the last time she had displayed a genuine emotion. “I just believe there is a way for both of us to walk away from this satisfied. This is what I propose- you would continue to control Eastmarch, Winterhold, and the Rift and the Empire would regain control over Hjaalmarch, the Reach, and Haafingar.”

“And Whiterun?” Ulfric asked as though he were actually considering this farce, when in reality he would rather die than surrender. “I have taken it, as I’m sure you recall.”

“It could be negotiated,” Elisif said with all the grace of an experienced politician. “What say you?”

He sat in silence for a few minutes as though pondering her proposal, when in reality he was just enjoying watching her sweat. “No,” Ulfric smiled largely, showing all his teeth in a predatory fashion, when he answered at last. The smile fell from her face and she reached for her goblet of wine to try and hide it in vain. “Why would I think of even partial surrender when I have the advantage? My forces take Fort Sungard as we speak, I have the Jagged Crown. The Dragonborn of legend is a trusted ally among my ranks- how could I lose?” Elisif tried to open her mouth to respond but he continued on. They were in _his_ palace, after all. “The gods themselves have chosen me to lead Skyrim and I will not ignore the call of destiny, and I will not hesitate to stop any who get in my way.”

“I have said my piece,” she said. There was a flicker of fear within her gaze as she looked at him. Good. She was as much of a snowflake as her milk-drinker husband was, with no true stomach for war. She didn’t deserve to be queen. “I suppose we will have to see what transpires, then.”

Ulfric laughed harshly, removing himself from the table. He was finished with this, with her. Even if she had a pretty face, she was too timid, too passive. As much as Svala’s pigheadedness drove him insane most of the time, he found he would rather converse with a wall than have an empty “pleasant” conversation. He missed her fight, her passion. He wanted _her,_ not the artificial, vapid, politician seated in front of him. “You have your answer, Jarl Elisif. Now I’m afraid I must retire for the evening, but you and Legate Rikke are free to stay the night and depart in the morning. And a word of caution, Elisif,” she seemed to study him with both shock and indignation- clearly she had expected this to end a very different way. “You will soon see what a _true_ High King of Skyrim looks like, and you may then rethink your offer to marry one.”


	17. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t died! I’m just going to post one chapter a week going forward to give me time to work on other projects, as well to dedicate the time to the chapters themselves. Thank you to all the readers and those enjoying this work so far! Updates will fall on Thursdays going forward.

A significant amount of mead later (Svala had lost count after bottle 5), she was stumbling drunk into the woods searching for a pond. She was warm (probably from all the alcohol she’d consumed) and Ralof and her other drinking companions had started brawling each other back at camp. Normally she’d participate in the fighting, but given her tumultuous mood she didn’t trust herself not to take things too far. Besides, Galmar kept glaring at her, scowling each time she spoke or moved (and she _really_ didn’t trust herself not to attack him again) _and_ had just informed them that come morning they would be taking Fort Sungard. A swim would help her clear her head.

There was a small secluded pond not too far from camp, luckily for her. After scanning the area and deeming it free of all threats, Svala peeled off her Stormcloak armor and sunk into the cool water. The frigid temperature made her gasp as it hit her skin, but after a few moments she could feel the tension in her muscles begin to lessen. She submerged herself fully, feeling various species of longfin brush against her feet and legs. It was the only moment of peace she had had to herself in as long as she could possibly remember.

And then the spell was broken.

There was the sound of snapping branches from the tree line and instantly Svala stiffened, alert once more. She listened intently- no growling, so she could rule out wolves or bears. Probably human then. Forsworn? Bandits? She swam to the water’s edge to collect a weapon.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she could hear a muffled voice say from the forest. Of course, a damn courier. Honestly, it would be impressive how they always managed to track her down, if it wasn’t so annoying. “Got something I’m supposed to deliver to you- for your eyes only.”

“Leave it on the ground and then go,” she said, already placing her sword back in its sheath and descending back into the pond.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, lass.” Svala straightened- there was something familiar about this particular courier. But no, it couldn’t be... To her horror, he continued, reading her own words back to her. “‘ _Bryn, I’m sorry. The road ahead is too dangerous and I must go it alone. Maybe in another life we will meet again. Your Lala.’”_

She must’ve been drunker than she thought if she was imagining Brynjolf there, with her, in the Reach, posing as a courier. Her guilt, Ulfric’s dismissal, her confusion, all rolled into one specter in the shape of him. “Go away,” she slurred, shaking her wet head like a dog as she squinted towards the sound of his voice. “You’re not real.”

“Ah, someone’s been hitting the mead.” Sure enough, Brynjolf stepped out of the shadows, illuminated only by the light of the moon. He was dressed as a courier (she had never remembered seeing him without his leather Guild armor on) in a simple tunic and pants. Even in the dark, his smug smirk was easy to see. “Never could hold your liquor, lass.”

Shit. He really _was_ there. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You left me alone in a field, Lala,” Brynjolf continued on as though she hadn’t spoken. “With that pitiful note. I don’t see you for _three_ years and you tell me you’re the Dragonborn before, what? A quick shag and then a disappearing act?” Even in her impaired state she could hear the hurt seeping into his words. “And you really thought I wouldn’t come looking?”

“So you’ve been what? Stalking me?” She went to stand up from the water before remembering her state of undress. Instead, she submerged herself deeper, leaving only her head visible.

“I prefer following,” Brynjolf shrugged. “You made it rather easy by cooking those books in Windhelm- led me right to you. I knew I hadn’t sent anyone down there to do those jobs.”

“Windhelm?” Svala frowned. Had he been there when Corrium captured her? When she took in Sofie? Had he seen her with Ulfric? “I never saw you in Windhelm.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he winked at her. “You were too busy in the palace. Friends in high places, eh?”

She could feel herself blushing and dipped her head underneath the surface to hide it. Maybe Brynjolf didn’t know the full extent of her relationship with Ulfric, but he definitely suspected. She knew him well enough to know that. When she resurfaced, Brynjolf was sitting at the pond’s edge, close enough to touch. “I’m in his army. I wouldn’t call us friends.”

He hummed thoughtfully before reaching out a hand to her. “Come on out now. Can’t have you dying of fever.”

“No,” she mumbled petulantly. As Brynjolf went to grab her arm, she surged forward and grabbed him by the tunic, pulling him in with her. He let out a muffled sound of surprise before spluttering and splashing around her while she laughed wildly. “You got your letter all wet,” he grumbled at her with a playful glint in his eye. “So don’t go shooting the messenger now. You have quite the reputation among couriers, you know. They practically sobbed in relief when I offered to bring it to you.”

“There was a real letter?” Svala splashed more water at him with a huff. “Huh. Who knew you were actually useful for something?”

“That’s it,” Brynjolf declared, grabbing her by the waist and dragging her to shore. She half heartedly fought him the entire (albeit short) swim, secretly too inebriated to push him away. She craved a pair of arms around her (and maybe more). Once upon solid ground, he threw her unceremoniously onto the dirt before standing up and removing his wet clothes. Before removing his trousers, however, he retrieved a wad of wet parchment from his pocket before pulling a face and tossing it onto the ground. “Well, that’s not going to do us any favors now. But I remember what it said- someone named ‘D’ is at an old Blades temple with Esbern. You apparently need to learn the ‘dragonrend’ Shout to defeat Alduin, who if I’m remembering correctly, is the doomsday dragon. Does any of that mess make any sense to you?”

If anything could damper her spirits when she was lying naked in front of a man, thinking of Alduin and Delphine would be the thing to do it. She groaned internally, swearing she would sort things out when she was sober. “Yes, and that’s the last I’ll say on it.” She eyed his naked form in front of her hungrily; he wasn’t nearly as big as Ulfric (in all aspects) but he was lithe and strong (and large where it counted). His cock was already starting to swell from his eyes on her naked form- it made her grow damp. “I’m not in the mood for talking anyway.”

Her hand slid up the expanse of his chest to his neck where she instantly paused. He was wearing some kind of a circular amulet. The question was, though, _whose_ amulet? Zenithar? Maybe praying for some extra coin? That itself was odd- Brynjolf never cared much for religion or the divines. Hell, she had always felt the same until learning she was Dragonborn and feeling an odd kinship with Talos. No, not Zenithar. There was a tiny gem in the center.

“It’s an amulet of Mara,” He said softly. “We need to talk, lass.”

The mead was still making her warm and relaxed and did nothing to quell her impulsive urges. In fact, the pleasant buzz of alcohol in her system only served to egg her on. As quickly as she could manage, she stumbled to her knees before surging forward and capturing Brynjolf’s thickening cock between her lips. He let out a strained groan before placing a hand on her head, trying to push her away. “Damnit Lala, I want to do this-“

She removed herself from him with a wet pop before saying, “You wanted to talk, so talk. I’m listening,” and then placing her lips around the head of his cock and sucking hard. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin of his shaft and she could feel his reverberating moan. He staggered backwards, and the hand in her hair pulled for support.

“There’s a bounty- ah, fuck- out for you in Rif- _yes, so good-_ Riften,” Brynjolf managed to moan out brokenly as he lightly began thrusting his hips into her mouth. She could taste as he slowly began to leak into her mouth and she used her tongue to savor it- he started to whine in pleasure, his hips moving faster. There was something just so alluring about having the silver tongued Guild master become a babbling fool at her touch. Her hands idly stroked his shaft up and down while her mouth continued to suckle him. “Thal-thaaaal- fuck, Svala, I’m close, stop-“

She removed her mouth quickly, Trearil’s image flashing to the forefront of her mind as Brynjolf let out a whimper of her name and came onto the earth around them. Suddenly she felt sick and wrapped her arms tightly around her quickly cooling flesh. “It’s been a while since I’ve had someone service me that well,” he said apologetically with a roguish wink, mistaking her silence as disappointment. “Just give us a breather and then we can continue where we left off.”

“Which Thalmor?” She asked him, searching for her armor. “Was there a name attached to the bounty?”

“Elenwen I think,” Brynjolf frowned at her sudden shift in mood. “Lass, it’ll be alright. The Guild has put a stop to any and all who were dumb enough to try and take the bait, and if I catch wind of any that do come sniffing...well...Astrid owes Delvin a few favors. You’re safe, lass. I couldn’t protect you once, but I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you again.”

She wanted to believe him, but Svala knew better. Sobriety was coming back to her with the force of a giant’s club. It would make sense if Elenwen was looking for her since she _had_ looted her embassy and killed most of her forces, but she knew that Trearil was still involved in some way. “Is that what you came here to tell me? To warn me about the bounty?”

“Yes and no,” he said, watching as she dressed with her back turned to him before stopping her as she attempted to braid her wet hair. “Let me.” His hands massaged the top of her head, soothing where he had pulled on her scalp just moments before, sending tingles down her spine. Brynjolf separated her long hair into sections before starting to braid, while speaking directly into her ear. “The amulet, lass. You showed me one once and I was a damn fool. I thought I was too old for you, that you deserved a proper husband who could give you a simple life. I thought that’s what you wanted, what you needed. I didn’t want you to be saddled with me just because I was your first roll in the hay.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her vision. “And now?” She asked thickly, half dreading the answer. Leave it to Brynjolf to wait until she was not only fighting in a civil war, but also supposed to defeat a mythical beast who was attempting to destroy mankind to decide to settle down.

His hand pushed her chin upwards to meet his eyes. “Svala, come with me. We can leave Skyrim, start over. Somewhere we’ll never be found- we can get a nice little farm in the country, I’ll build you a nice big house...it could be nice,” Brynjolf’s blue eyes were gazing at her shyly. “I think it could be a good life.”

“We’re taking Fort Sungard at first light,” she blurted out, too stunned to stop the thoughts as they poured out of her mouth. He wanted to leave everything, for _her_? Divines, it was all she had ever wanted as a youth... “And I have to defeat Alduin, and the Guild! They need you. We can’t just leave, Bryn.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, nuzzling his nose against her own. “The Guild will survive, Karliah is willing to take over. As for Ulfric’s war, he’s got plenty of other ‘true Nords’ to die for him. And Alduin...well, that beast is nothing we can’t handle.”

“ _We_?” Svala pulled her face away from his. “Bryn, I already told you, _no_. It has to be me- it can _only_ be me. Alduin would destroy you and I wouldn’t be able to survive that. Please. I need to do this _alone_.”

She pressed her lips softly and chastely to his before turning to depart back to camp. “I will be at the Vilemyr Inn, in Ivarstead,” he called after her. “I know you’re going to see the Greybeards once you’re done playing the dutiful soldier,” she could hear the smugness in his tone, and it infuriated her that he was right- after the battle she was going to tell Galmar she needed to go back to High Hrothgar. The Greybeards were the only ones who could teach her dragonrend. “When you’re done with them, I’ll be waiting for you Lala. Vilemyr Inn.”

She nodded before disappearing into the darkness and trudging back to the Stormcloak camp, an awful headache brewing behind her eyes. Truthfully, she didn’t know if she’d see Brynjolf again or not. War was funny that way.

* * *

It was pouring.

Rain dripped into her eyes as she and the others began the assault. Ralof was somewhere by her side, barking out orders as arrows whizzed by them. A small group of archers had taken up their posts at the very top of the fort and the rest of the Imperial Legionaries were rushing to defend the entrance. A meager wooden, spiked structure barricaded them out but Svala quickly chopped through it, evading multiple swords slicing through the air at her. The smell of mud, blood, and death already hang rank in the morning air.

“Take out the damn archers!” Ralof called to her as he ducked and weaved away from a burly Imperial who was swinging a war hammer at his head. She took off running towards the wooden landings that led to where the archers had posted up. A small group of men broke off with her, silently questioning her if she needed assistance, but she swatted them away in irritation before continuing to sprint towards the platforming. They would only slow her down.

She was halfway up the second ladder before the wind was knocked out of her- she had been kicked in the chest and her assailant was standing over her with his axe raised menacingly above her. It was some kind of orc- she could tell by the way his bottom teeth curled up over green lips through his slotted helmet. Svala was able to curl onto her side and roll out of the way as he swung, the steel becoming buried uselessly in the platform, and plunged her sword into the orc’s back with a cry. She climbed over his corpse and continued her path upwards, feeling multiple arrows imbed themselves in her arms and legs. Her flesh grew warm with the early signs of poisoning, but she could barely feel it in the heat of battle.

Once at the top, one archer turned her bow to point at Svala’s skull- she rolled forwards and disemboweled the Imperial woman. Her intestines and blood gushed onto the already slick stones, and Svala slipped forward onto her knees as she tried to attack the other soldiers who were now rushing towards her. “ _Fus Ro Dah!”_ She Shouted and they went flying backwards, some cracking their skulls into the unforgiving stone walls of the fort, others flying onto the ground where their spines were crushed by the impact alone. The door to the muster opened and more soldiers issued out, weapons raised. She opened her mouth to Shout again when her throat seized uncomfortably- her fingers drifted to her neck and found it bare. _Of course_ , she had given Sofie her amulet of Talos; damn thing must’ve contained some sort of enchantment from its namesake god that allowed her to be able to Shout more frequently. Assessing her current predicament, Svala glumly found her odds weren’t good- there were at least 12 enemy soldiers rushing towards her and she was without her powers. She raised her swords and rushed forward to meet her fate.

Two of the Legionaries came at her with swords and axes and she was able to imbed one of her own weapons in one enemy while using their corpse as a shield to defend against the other. Still, even as they both lay dead at her feet, more came rushing at her like a never ending wave. “Take the Dragonborn!” One was shouting, waving his weapon in her direction. A tribune- she could tell by his armor. Svala went to charge towards him when suddenly the majority of the troops at the tribune’s back fell dead from a barrage of arrows. Half a dozen Stormcloaks were climbing the walls led by Ralof.

“I think I’m killing more Imperials than you, I’ve been counting!” Ralof taunted her with a grin, swinging his warhammer wildly. Spots of blood and mud freckled his face, making him look rather deranged. “I have to admit, this is more fun than I thought it’d be!”

“I’m at 12!!” She called back, currently locked in a duel with three enemies- another orc, an Imperial who had lost his right ear, and a female Dunmer. The Dunmer was shooting lightning at her and each time a bolt connected Svala felt her muscles jolt, impacting her accuracy greatly- she needed to take out the elf first. Still, the orc was no picnic either due to his brute strength and giant broadsword, and it was taking most of her stamina to keep blocking his attacks while _also_ fending off the Imperial. “I could do this _alll_ day!” She bluffed with a cracking voice, silently hoping Ralof could sense the plea there.

“Can’t let you have all the fun,” He was by her side in moments, flattening the skull of the Dunmer mage with one deadly swing. The Imperial man cried out in horror as he was bathed in brain matter and Svala responded by beheading him swiftly, a silent scream still etched upon his face. The orc looked between both her and Ralof before holding his sword in front of him protectively, but it was no use- she slid her sword into his belly just as Ralof swung his warhammer into the orc’s neck. “Alright, I officially owe you a drink when- _Ralof!!_ ”

The tip of the tribune’s sword was sticking through Ralof’s chest. Svala watched in horror as the blue of his Stormcloak cuirass grew black with the blood spreading from his wound, his eyes wide and his lips still moving in shock. With a scream of fury Svala pulled one sword from the orc’s stomach as her second was already slicing the tribune’s head from his shoulders. Tears mixed with the blood and rainwater already coating her face as she knelt beside Ralof’s prone form slumped over the corpse of the tribune that had wounded him, pressing her hands firmly over the bleeding gash. “No, no, come on, damnit,” she fished around in her pockets for one of Sofie’s healing potions and pressed the vial to his lips, forcing the liquid inside his mouth. Thankfully, some color returned to his complexion, but his eyes were still large and unfocused as they stared at her.

“Svala...t-tell Gerdur...”

“Shut up,” she commanded him, trying desperately to remember _any_ healing spell (why didn’t she have a damn Shout to heal another??) while cradling his head in her lap. “You’re not going to Sovngarde, not this day. Tell her yourself.”

The sounds of battle were dying away in the courtyard below them, followed by victorious shouts and whoops of laughter. Apparently they had succeeded in taking Fort Sungard. How pleased Ulfric would be. Their win brought her little satisfaction, though, staring at Ralof’s labored breathing. He needed a healer- a _real_ healer.

She remembered that one priestess in Whiterun, the one she had helped with the tree. Dortda? Drijard? No...Danica. She had offered to teach Svala some basic restoration magic (other than the simple self healing spell she already knew) in exchange for the Dragonborn’s help in slaying a few hargravens, retrieving a mystical dagger, and healing some sacred tree. Of course, Svala was on her way to join up in Ulfric’s ranks so why would she _ever_ need to be bothered with advanced restoration magic in a war? (Or such was her flawed logic at the time.) Nonetheless, if anyone could heal Ralof it would be Danica. Gingerly, she helped Ralof to his feet and slung his arm around her shoulders, keeping a hand pressed steady on his wound. “Come on, we’re getting you to Whiterun,” she told him, entering the muster and using the stone steps of the fort to reach the courtyard.

Svala was greeted with cacophonous shouts and chants of her title “Bone-Breaker” which quickly died down when the rest of her comrades noticed whom she was carrying. A few men ran towards her, Vidbjorn and Styper (she recognized them as her fellow drinking partners from the night before, even though that now felt like years ago) and instantly helped her support Ralof’s weight. “I need a cart and my horse,” she told them at once. “Put some straw in the cart and bandage his wound with _clean_ rags. Put them in boiling water first. I’m leaving for Whiterun at once. He needs healing.”

“Bone-Breaker, we have a Battle-Maiden here who could help,” Vidbjorn began but she attempted to silence him with a fiery look. She was well aware of the camp Battle-Maiden Fjossa, who had tried to heal Styper’s broken nose during the drunken brawls from the night before, and had only succeeded at transforming it into a pig snout. However, Vidbjorn wasn’t known for his intelligence, and continued on. “And Whiterun is nearly a days ride away, he might not make it that far.”

“You’ll do as I say or Molag Bol himself will _blush_ at what I do to you,” she snarled, grabbing the soldier by the collar of his cuirass. His face turned white and he nodded grimly before racing away from her.

She knew that Galmar would likely have her head for not reporting directly to Ulfric (as she had been ordered to post battle, in no uncertain terms), but she would be damned to let Ralof die because of her. Within moments her horse (whom she had started calling Nameless because she couldn’t think of anything better) had been connected to a cart filled with a simple straw cot. Ralof lie upon it, his skin pale and clammy. She only hoped that fever wasn’t setting in.

“May Talos guide you Bone-Breaker,” Styper told her solemnly, handing her some provisions of dried horker meat, goat cheese and a few bottles of mead. She noticed he had also thought to give her a few minor healing potions as well.

“Tell Galmar I will report to Windhelm when Ralof is sorted,” she told her shield brother before snapping the reins on Nameless and riding swiftly off into the setting sun.


	18. Eighteen

_“Maven is pissed,” Mercer said as he paced the length of the cistern. “Apparently a group of bandits thought they could break into her place and empty out her safe. We obviously need to rectify this, and quickly.”_

_“Hit them back?” Brynjolf suggested. She could only imagine the dark smile on his face- it was his trademark grin whenever he talked about business. “Clean them out in turn? Sounds easy enough to me.”_

_“That, and,” Mercer continued briskly. “Their heads. She wants them all dead.”_

_Svala had been listening from her cot, feigning sleep. Bandits? Brynjolf had stopped her from poisoning the leader who had brought her to Riften, but she knew the rest of his gang were still nearby in the wilds of the Rift. This job sounded like the perfect opportunity to not only settle a score, but to also prove herself within the Guild._

_“Absolutely not,” Brynjolf snapped. “We are the Thieves Guild, not the Dark Brotherhood. If Maven wants a hit she can employ that lot to do her dirty work for her. I’ll have no part of it.”_

_“Lucky for you, Brynjolf, you’re not the only person in this Guild,” Mercer retorted icily. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find a willing candidate for the amount of gold Maven’s offered up for this job.”_

_Brynjolf sighed deeply. “As you wish, Mercer. But leave the lass out of it. I won’t have her become an assassin.”_

_“As if I’d ask her,” Mercer scoffed. “She’s too green for a job like this.”_

_Too green? Svala seethed silently. She would show him. She would show both of them. She’d have those bandits cleared out **and** their heads on a pike for Maven. She waited until Mercer and Brynjolf had made their way back into the Flagon before rising from her bunk and collecting supplies for her journey. _

_“You’re really going to take the bait like that?” Rune’s smug voice came from behind her. His arms were crossed across his chest as he studied her with bemusement. “You know Mercer only said that because he knew half of us were listening- you included. He’s testing you.”_

_“I never back down from a challenge,” Svala told him defiantly, grabbing a spare bow from the weapons cache as well as a few swords (she was a dreadful archer, Ninruin was always telling her so, but better to be over prepared than under). “Besides, they killed my family. You going to try and stop me?”_

_“Of course not,” Rune answered her brightly. “I’m coming with you.” He pulled a packed bag from the chest in front of his own bunk. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of splitting the bounty with him, but knew that Rune would still tag along no matter what she told him- he was like a puppy dog with a crush, constantly following her around, leaving little trinkets on her cot. She would’ve been flattered had she had eyes for anyone other than Brynjolf._

_They took the secret entrance out of Riften’s cemetery before setting out for Faldar’s Tooth on foot. The bandits had set up quite a cozy camp at the abandoned fort, complete with trained wolves in cages. They could hear the low growling as they approached the compound and Rune held out an arm to slow her. “We need to take out their sentries before getting any closer,” he murmured, raising his own bow. She followed suit, though the arrows she fired whizzed uselessly by their marks. “Have you actually gotten worse at archery?” The imperial asked her with a stifled laugh._

_“Shut up,” she mumbled, her face turning red as Rune continued to laugh, taking out the rest of the guards with ease. The wolves began to howl, noticing the absence of their masters, and her stomach dropped. A crowd of bandits had exited the fort and were looking for the threat earnestly, weapons drawn. “Shit! What do we do now?”_

_“We’re outnumbered,” Rune told her grimly. “And if they know we’re here, we won’t get past them if it’s just us two. We need to head back, try again later.”_

_She was about to agree with him when she caught sight of the bandit looter closest to her. The bosmer woman was wearing something gold- the light glinted off it as she turned towards them, even as rain clouds gathered in the sky. Svala felt her throat catch- could it be? Her mother’s necklace? She remembered the time her father had spent saving up gold and flawless emeralds to make it for her..._

_Svala felt her blood boil and before she could register Rune’s cry of panic she was rushing forward with her sword raised. The bandit let out a high whistle and the sound of snarling grew closer, even as the bosmer fell dead not a moment later from Rune’s arrow sticking out of her eye socket, a ghost of her last whistle still upon her lips, frozen forever. “Move!” Rune hissed at her as he took off running back towards the city, and she followed in earnest until she could feel sharp teeth nipping at her heels. She tried to throw her body forwards but a wolf sunk its teeth into her calf, pulling her down onto the earth. She screamed in agony, trying to kick the creature in the skull with her free foot, but only succeeded in making it angrier. Blood welled up in its jaws as it shook its head deeper into her flesh._

_Rune rushed forwards and buried his mace into the creature’s skull, helping to pry its sharp teeth off Svala as the light left its eyes. “Can you walk?” He asked her anxiously, paling when she shook her head with a whimper. “Shit. Ok. Jump on my back, I’ll try to carry you bac-“_

_Svala screamed- suddenly there was an arrow sticking out of Rune’s shoulder. His fist enclosed around it immediately, pulling it free from his body with a grunt. His arm extended towards her, his face stricken with fear, trying to push her to the ground. She understood his meaning too late, feeling an arrow imbed itself into her back and the warmth of a paralysis potion beginning to spread from the wound. Her body crumpled to the ground and she was able to see, through terrified eyes, the rest of the bandits approaching her and Rune with chains._

“Gerdur? Are we almost there?”

Svala awoke with a start. Her thighs were nearly immobile from gripping Nameless so tightly- she had traveled through the night after leaving the Reach camp, even though her body was screaming with exhaustion and she could feel a fever brewing due to the damp armor she wore.

Ralof was stable, at least. His own fever was high and he often thought she was his sister, but at least he was still conscious (most of the time). When he would grow quiet she would stop riding and douse him with a minor healing potion- it wouldn’t do much, but it seemed to keep him comfortable. She didn’t dare take one for herself; Alduin would be the one to kill her, not something as simple as a fever. The gods just weren’t that merciful to her. She could press on.

Still, as she rode on, Svala felt herself growing drowsy and confused. Sometimes when she looked behind her she half expected to see Rune in Ralof’s place, his dark eyes wide and scared as the rain misted around them. The line between the past and the present grew more blurred with each passing moment. She tried to shake the memories but her mind would not let her forget.

_“She’s pretty, and young too. Think she’s housebroken?”_

_Four bandits were holding her by the wrists and ankles, keeping her spread apart as though they attempted to tear her into pieces. They had ripped off her armor and left her bare as she sobbed, trying to twist out of their grip. She called for Rune until her voice gave out- since they had brought her back to Faldar’s Tooth she hadn’t seen him after they had dragged him away. A leather strip was forcefully shoved into her mouth and tied around her head as a primitive gag._

_“No, she wants to see her little boyfriend so bad, I say we show her,” the bandit leader sneered at her through his iron helmet. She spat at him through her tears and he punched her in the jaw. The pain made her vision darken._

_She could see one orc in an executioner’s hood carrying a bloody sack towards her and instantly her struggling reached a crescendo as she screamed as loudly as possible through the gag. Svala tried to close her eyes but the bandit leader pried them open with his grimy fingers, laughing sadistically as the sack was pulled away and Rune’s severed head dangled from the orc’s other fist. Rune’s eyes remained open and blank, his mouth still wide in a silent scream, and the nausea and the grief that surged over her left her breathless as her vision went black._

_“Hey, hey, easy now. It’s okay. Take it easy, you’ve been through a lot.”_

_Svala’s eyes snapped open sometime later and she saw herself face to face with a redguard man she didn’t recognize wearing distinct black and red armor. Only one organization wore armor like that; the Dark Brotherhood. She tried to scurry away from him and find a weapon but he placed a friendly hand on her leg. “Easy, I’m not here to hurt you. You’re a member of the Guild, right?” She nodded, still ready to attack if need be. “Mercer sent me. He called in some favors to my leader. It’s okay.”_

_Reluctantly, she felt the tension drop from her body (slowly) as she scanned her surroundings. The bandits’ corpses lay scattered around the courtyard and the air was heavy with the smell of rot and blood. Rune’s head was lying a few paces away from her, and she started to cry silently once more upon seeing it again. “R-Rune,” she whimpered, pointing to what was left of her friend with a shaking finger, hoping the assassin would understand._

_Sympathy bloomed on his kindly features. “A friend of yours? I’m sorry.” She noticed then that unlike the other assassins she had heard of, he didn’t wear a cowl to obstruct his face- instead, he wore the redguard hood of Hammerfell and carried one of their curved swords on his hip as well. “May he find peace in the Void.”_

_“I-I need to loot the ch-chest...for the job...” Svala sniffled, trying to rise to her feet on shaky legs, the wolf bite ripping itself open anew with each movement she made. The assassin helped steady her with a supportive arm around her waist and she motioned to him where she needed to go. The chest containing Maven’s valuables was tucked away inside the fort and the redguard stood guard for her as she picked the lock. Her stomach dropped once the chest popped open- none of the other loot matched anything the bandits had taken from her family._

_These **weren’t** the bandits that had killed her parents. She had let her rage cloud her judgement and she had gotten Rune killed for **nothing.**_

“Gerdur, do you have any more of that mead I like? With the juniper berries in it?”

Ralof’s weak voice barely registered in Svala’s cloudy mind. She pulled the horse to a stop and retrieved the final healing potion, propping up his head and tipping the liquid inside. “This is it,” she told him hoarsely, trying to ignore just how pale he was, and the spreading haze of fever overtaking her own body. “You’re going to have to hold on until we get to Whiterun now. We’re so close, Rune. We’re almost there.”

They were quickly approaching the Western watchtower and she could see the walls of the city coming into view. Maybe an hour more and they would be inside Whiterun and she could hand Rune over to Danica and everything would be okay...Mercer would be pleased she had gotten Maven’s things back and Brynjolf would see she could handle much more on her own than fishing off the travelers...

_“What were you thinking?!” Mercer bellowed at her once she had been returned to the cistern. Brynjolf stared at her emptily next to him, and his blatant disappointment made her feel even worse. “Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get Nazir to bail you out?? You’re lucky we weren’t scraping pieces of you off the ground too!”_

_Vex let out a muffled sob- she and Rune had been close. She could feel the rest of the Guild’s eyes on her, hateful and disapproving. “Mercer...” Brynjolf said lowly to the Guildmaster. “I think the lass is well aware of how badly she botched this.”_

_Svala nodded emphatically in agreement. “I’m sorry, Mercer, I am! I fucked up, I just thought- those bandits- they killed my family and-“_

_“We are your family now,” Mercer growled at her. “And because of your irresponsibility and stupidity your family has now shrunk by one. From now on, you don’t do **any** job without a partner. If I hear you’ve even **breathed** where you’re not supposed to, I’ll start taking fingers. Are we clear?”_

_“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Brynjolf said hastily after Mercer finished his tirade. “You can hold me accountable if she gets herself into any more trouble.” Even as he vouched for her, she noticed, he would not look directly at her._

_“Fine,” Mercer bit through gritted teeth at him. “You’ll get the same punishment as she’d get then if, no- **when** she botches another job.”_

_The anger and shame ate away at her as she watched the Guildmaster leave the cistern. Obviously she hadn’t wanted Rune to die- he was a friend to her at the very least, more of an older brother (not that she had much of a reference to compare him to). She tried to approach Brynjolf to tell him so, to try and explain, but he only held a hand up to her and said, “Sorry lass, I’ve got important things to do. We’ll speak another time.”_

_“Bryn please, I didn’t know! Please believe me,” she cried limping after him. Her hopes plummeted and her heart cracked- he’d **never** see her as anything other than a stupid kid now. _

_“Oh stop it lass,” Brynjolf snapped at her the second they were alone in the archery room. He slammed the door behind her where it locked with a click. “Don’t act like you didn’t know the boy was sweet on you. Don’t act like you didn’t hear me say that you were too green for a job like this. You always think you know better, like you can handle everything on your own, but you can’t. The sooner you accept it the sooner you’ll stop getting everyone else hurt.”_

“It’s all my fault,” she whispered to Ralof (Rune??) in the cart behind her. “I saw men coming to help me and I waved them off. I thought I could handle them all on my own. And you were just trying to help...I’m so sorry.”

Her vision grew darker, even in the morning sunshine, and the vague landscape of Whiterun around her was swirling and melting into blurry depictions of colors and shapes. It was everything she could do to hang onto her horse and keep pushing forward to the Temple of Kynareth. She could hear the shouts of the Stormcloak guards behind her, but she couldn’t make her mouth respond. She was on fire, so hot and yet so oddly cold, and her mouth was so dreadfully dry that her tongue was limp flesh between her jaws.

“Svala,” her head whirled around to see not only Ralof sitting up, but Rune as well. Their eyes were blank and dead as they stared at her and she gasped in horror as Brynjolf appeared too, followed by Ulfric. Blood dripped from their empty eyes and they reached out to her, their bodies melding together as her vision swam. “Svala...Dovahkiin,” Brynjolf repeated in the deep, non human rumble of Alduin’s voice. “When will you learn?”

Their hands covered her eyes and her mouth and she screamed and all went black.

* * *

Ulfric had been waiting for days on news from the Reach. Fort Sungard should have been under Stormcloak control, for all he knew, yet the lack of any concrete information only filled him with anxiety. Something was wrong.

“My Jarl!” A courier was approaching the throne, followed quickly by Jorleif. The steward trailed behind him, apparently unable to stop the man from delivering his message to anyone other than Ulfric himself. “Urgent news from Whiterun! Meant for your hands only.”

“Give it here,” he commanded, already sensing that this was not news he wanted. He quickly scanned over the letter:

_Jarl Ulfric,_

_My Thane is here in Breezehome recovering from serious illness. She arrived in the city three days prior, transporting a soldier of yours with mortal wounds to the local priestess of Kynareth. Svala has not regained full consciousness yet and her fever can not be broken no matter what we do._

_I am only writing to you because she has been asking for you. I do not know what your relationship with her is (nor do I want to) but I feel as though she would want you to know in case she is to journey to Sovngarde soon._

_-Lydia, Housecarl of Breezehome_

_(Destroy this message.)_

His fist crumpled around the parchment, feeling quite ill. She was dying. She was dying and he wasn’t there. Why destroy the message? Was the messenger compromised? “How long,” he bit at the courier through ground teeth. “Did you have this information for?”

“My Jarl?” The Breton asked anxiously. “I-I don’t understand...I’ve ridden all night...”

“I have a proposition,” the Jarl continued, already rising from his throne. She could already be dead because of this fool’s slowness _and he wasn’t there._ “If I can make it to Whiterun in 9 hours on my fastest horse, I will flog you for each hour you have wasted on your journey here.”

“My Jarl, please!” The courier cried, nervously eyeing the guards that had silently taken place at his side. “There were reports of a dragon approaching, I needed to be careful!”

“Did you see this dragon?” The Breton licked his lips and shook his head, already opening his mouth to explain before Ulfric silenced him. “Then you truly are of no use to me. Lock him in the black cells- I will deal with him later.”

“My Jarl!” Jorleif cried as he headed for Wuunferth’s chambers. The mage was accompanying him to Whiterun, whether he wanted to or not. If he trusted anyone to heal Svala, it would be Wuunferth. “Please, I urge you to think things through. We _have_ heard reports of dragons and Galmar himself is riding back today to-“

“Of course there are dragons! I am quite familiar with them!” Ulfric bellowed, his patience evaporating. “And the only one who can stop them, the Dovahkiin, might be _dying_ as I waste my breath explaining my affairs to you!!”

Jorleif paled and bowed slightly, still continuing to speak but no longer meeting his eyes. “Of course, my Jarl, I understand how much yo _-we_ care for Lady Svala but there has been word from the Reach that a dragon has taken out our camp there.”

He paused, still seeing red and breathing heavily. She could be dead. Talos, was _this_ what injured her? A dragon? “Survivors?”

“Galmar,” Jorleif murmured. “Lady Svala, and Captain Ralof was also missing from the report. The rest of the men we had garrisoned at Fort Sungard are dead- dragon also laid waste to the fort.”

He let out a roar and pounded his fist into the palace wall- there must’ve been some thu’um in his cry because his fist left a crack in the stone. Several guards even fled in alarm. Of course. The soldier Svala was bringing to Whiterun was Ralof, her lover. Perhaps the simpleton was even her husband. Grief, jealousy, anger, fear, and guilt warred within Ulfric as he attempted to clear his mind to plan is next move. Every bone in his body screamed for him to ride to Whiterun, but if there was a dragon loose in the Reach it could definitely mean a chance at the Imperials regaining control. Not to mention the state Galmar would be in...his friend was tough and an excellent warrior, that was true, but who among them (other than the Dragonborn) could face a dragon single-handedly and live? “What would you have me do?”

“You are Jarl,” Jorleif responded uncomfortably. “I support whatever decision you make.”

“Might I make a suggestion?” Wuunferth asked dryly, appearing on the stairs, apparently having heard the commotion. “Send me to Whiterun. I can tend to Lady Svala and you can remain here to receive Galmar.”

“When is Galmar due to arrive?” Ulfric was already trying to calculate when the earliest he could leave was going to be. With every moment that passed he said another prayer to Talos that she was still alive.

“His bird got here in the night,” Jorleif said. Ulfric frowned- if Galmar was using birds like they had done in the Great War, there was a chance the couriers _were_ compromised. He was glad he had one in irons. “I’d say maybe...another 5 hours? If he does not stop.”

“If Galmar has just faced a dragon, he will not stop.” Ulfric snapped, turning back to Wuunferth. The old mage was watching him closely with a...smile? His temper flared once more. “Is any of this funny to you, Wuunferth?”

“Ulfric,” Wuunferth said with a shake of his head, “a priestess of Kynareth is not necessarily the best healer. Besides, my apprentice has actually given me some insight into the lady’s...origins. Because of her dragon blood, it is very possible that traditional healing potions and remedies may not work correctly. I know Sofie had given her some potions we had modified to include powdered dragon scales with her when she left, but knowing our mutual friend she gave them to Ralof. My point is, do not let emotion cloud your judgement. Your first duty is to the men and women fighting for you.”

Damn it. Even if Ulfric had remained unconvinced at the start of the mage’s speech, hearing mention of those fighting for him would always get him to yield. The sacrifice of those who pledged him their lives was always a humbling thing to behold. “I will wait for Galmar,” he sighed deeply. “Wuunferth, take Sofie to Hjerim and insist that she is to stay there under Calder’s protection until I return. Then leave for Whiterun. Tell her... I...” Jorleif and Wuunferth were watching him closely. It was unnerving and he didn’t like it. “Wait for me there.”

He spun on his heel and was already making his way to the cellars of the palace to train. He couldn’t bear to see the knowing grin on Wuunferth’s face or Jorleif’s panicked hand wringing anymore. He would do his duty and he would wait for Galmar to arrive, but after that nothing would stop him from getting to Whiterun. His sword slashed the straw man so many times that he could feel bits of hay become tangled in his hair; still it was not enough. All Ulfric wanted was to have her lying next to him again, to know she was alive and well, to feel her essence drying on his cock. His lust for her was nearly driving him insane, as though he were led by a primal urge to claim her as his before she departed this world.

“Doesn’t put up much of a fight, does he?” Galmar’s gravelly voice came from behind him and Ulfric stilled. How long had he been down there for? “Jorleif told me you’d be here.”

“How do you fare?” He was almost scared to see the state his general was in. “Dragons are nasty business.” Slowly, Ulfric turned.

“Aye,” there were large patches of blackened skin on Galmar’s arms and legs, but other than superficial abrasions and a bruised eye the Nord seemed to be relatively unscathed. “Good thing it wasn’t looking for me.”

“Looking?” Ulfric narrowed his eyes at Galmar. “What do you mean? You cannot speak the dragon tongue.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” his friend said with a smirk. “I do remember, however, hearing stories of the dovahkiin while I was still on my mama’s breast.”

Dovahkiin. Ulfric’s sword dropped from his fist and clattered to the ground. A dragon, looking for her? _Now?_ “I must get to her, she is dying,” he told Galmar in a rush, nearly sprinting back up to the main floor of the palace. Galmar hobbled behind at his heels, speaking equally as quickly back to him.

“Listen, _damnit listen Ulfric!_ From what I heard from the men before that damn lizard came hunting, Ralof stepped in front of a blade for her and she just took off for Whiterun. I know you care for her but you don’t know what state she’s in! She could be putting you on so she can run off with Ralof if he pulls through! She could-“

“If she dies and I was here arguing with you I will follow her to Sovngarde myself if only to drag her back to the land of the living,” Ulfric spat, feeling his iron clad composure slipping more and more by the moment. “You trust no one Galmar, which is normally something I appreciate as it has kept me alive. But I warn you, your influence will not stop me from following the will of the gods, whatever it may be.” Svala’s amulet of Mara dangled from his fist, swinging slightly in front of Galmar’s shocked face. For a tense moment the two men stood there, studying each other silently.

“You’re needed here,” Galmar tried to reason once more with the Jarl. “You need to rally the men, make plans for a siege! What of Elisif’s offer? Such a thing is too important to just ignore! And dragons?? Ulfric you’re mad if you’re going to ride alone to where a dragon is heading when the wench might not-“

Ulfric didn’t hear the rest- the loud slam of the palace doors shutting behind him drowned out the rest of Galmar’s argument


	19. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dovah statement included in this chapter translates to: “I will kill you, dovahkiin.” Enjoy!

_She was back with Brynjolf in the cistern while everyone slept. Every time she looked at Rune’s empty bed she was filled with a familiar sensation of creeping guilt and loss. It had taken time for the rest of the Guild to forgive her and slowly let her back into the fold, but that didn’t mean that she stopped carrying the burden of her own failure. Rune had died for **her.** No amount of coin or work would wipe that from her slate._

_“Lass,” Brynjolf murmured to her, sitting on the edge of her cot. She stared at him with wide, sleepless eyes. “You’re thinking too hard. I can smell your hair burning. Come, lets train.”_

_Svala nodded. Patching things up with Brynjolf had been even harder- his disappointment cut her just as deeply as Rune’s death. Brynjolf had given her this new life, saved her, and how had she repaid him? By jeopardizing everything. She had taken every menial job thrown at her, shined armor for her Guild members, took shifts at the Flagon, whatever she could to show her contrition. Eventually, Bryn had came around, acting around her as he once had, but that didn’t mean all was forgiven. She knew better. Obediently, she followed Brynjolf into the archery room. Once again, he let the door lock behind her. Her skin prickled with the memory of what he had said to her the last time she had been inside that room._

_For a while they fired arrows at the targets, side by side, remaining silent. “All I want is to make you proud,” she whispered to him, surprising even herself by speaking the thought aloud. “I’m so sorry, Brynjolf. I really fucked up.”_

_“We were all young once,” Brynjolf said easily as his arrow pierced the center of the target effortlessly. “Ours is a hard existence. We all know this. Rune did too.”_

_“I killed him,” she felt the tears on her face before she registered she was crying. “I did. And every time I close my eyes I see him staring back at me.”_

_Brynjolf’s fingertips felt along her jawline and tipped her face up to look at his. “You need to let him go, lass. Ghosts serve no other purpose than to haunt. And you, lass, you’re haunted enough.” His eyes were so blue and the ginger red of his hair glowed warmly in the dim firelight. She could feel his breath ghosting over her lips and surged with a hunger she had never felt before she surged forward and kissed him._

_The older thief made a sound of surprise as his lips slowly responded in kind. Svala could hardly believe her luck- for all the nights she had pined for this man, craved his touch, imagined him inside her (even though she had never experienced an act so intimate) she had always assumed it was in vain, that Brynjolf would never see her as anything more than his little protege. Yet his lips were chapped and rough against her own, his hand tangling in her hair as she gasped and moaned against him, pressing herself closer to him. For a moment, he seemed to remember who exactly he was kissing, before groaning deep in his throat and pushing her against the closest wall._

_“Easy lass,” he chuckled in ear as she fiddled with the straps and clasps of his armor in her impatience. She was familiar enough with them when taking off her own armor, but removing someone else’s was another matter entirely. “Here, let me lend a hand.” With a few deft movements her hands felt the warmth of his skin as his leather armor fell to the ground. She stared at him in pure adoration, unsure of how to proceed, when Brynjolf captured her lips again, his tongue pressing inside her mouth insistently, hungrily. She let him dictate the pace, let him show her, teach her what came next. He undressed her slowly, thumbing the amulet of Mara she had bought for him, that was currently nestled between her breasts. Instead of commenting on it, his mouth moved down the slope of her breasts, capturing one of her nipples in his mouth while he sucked gently. Electric shocks reverberated through her body and she could feel herself grinding her wetness instinctually against his bare thigh. A nimble finger slipped inside her and the intrusion was odd and slightly uncomfortable. “Relax,” his brogue had gone rough with lust and she gasped as the digit moved inside her, brushing against something that made her cry out and see stars. Soon one fingers became two and she was all but riding his hand in her eagerness, the hard edge of his cock pressing against her hip. “Relax,” he said again before lining his cock up against her entrance and pushing slowly inside. All of Svala’s breath left her as she felt him fill her and her eyes watered with the pain and the burn of the stretch. His forehead pressed against hers and she kissed him once more as his hips slowly began to move, dragging his length in and out of her torturously slowly. Once he felt her own hips moving earnestly back against him, his arm circled her waist and pressed her higher up the wall, picking up the speed and ferocity in which he fucked her._

_She could feel Brynjolf **everywhere,** as though he had taken root inside her blood and was planning on staying. She felt as though she were going to split apart and that everything was ending but beginning at the same time and it was too much **it was too much-** Svala screamed as her body shook and spasmed around him and he gasped and moaned so lovely and passionately in her ear as he felt his seed paint her thighs. Her maiden blood coated his cock. Brynjolf’s eyes locked onto the red smear on his own flesh and she placed a hand on his freckled shoulder. “I bought it for you,” she said softly. “The amulet. I bought it for you.”_

_“Lass,” he responded with a strained laugh. “I’m flattered, but I’m not the marrying type.”_

The dream changed.

_“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.” Ralof said with a small smile. She could feel a gag around her mouth and rope binding her wrists and ankles. Had she been trying to cross the border? Everything was fuzzy. Last she remembered was Trearil’s melted face watching her board a carriage in irons._

_She scanned the other inhabitants of her current transport as Ralof and the horse thief started to bicker. Ulfric’s hulking form studied her intensely, his stormy eyes fixed upon her. He looked so strong, so capable. It was hard for her to imagine how he had gotten himself captured, or why his mouth was covered like hers. Maybe he spat at them, like she she had. “Watch your tongue,” Ralof snapped sharply at the thief sitting next to them. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.” His name carried little weight to her then- he was just another prisoner, same as her._

_She had fully expected to die that day. She knew that she was being brought to the block as soon as the carriage drove past the gates of Helgen. The where of it didn’t really matter- she always had known Trearil would dispose of her when he was finished with her. A sleepy town in Skyrim seemed as good a place as any for him to fulfill his promise. “Where are you from?” Ralof was asking her as they were led into the center of town. “A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.” She pointed to the gag in her mouth with an eye roll and the man flushed with a laugh. Svala liked him instantly- shame they were about to die. “Oh. Sorry. I’m from Riverwood myself.”_

_The horse thief was calling upon all the divines he knew as they walked closer and closer to the block. General Tullius and some Thalmor agents were waiting with the headsman and the only real emotion she could feel was relief- no more running, no more hiding. Finally it would be over. Ralof was still prattling on next to her, “I used to be sweet on someone from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.” She wanted to agree, but her eyes kept flickering to Ulfric walking proudly in front of them. While Ralof’s fear was easy enough to sense (she suspected that was why he kept blabbering to her about mead and Helgen) and the horse thief looked about to die from fright alone, she couldn’t suspect a trace of fear in Skyrim’s “true High King”. Even though he was largely a stranger to her- she **had** been in Cyrodiil for three years- she could respect a man ready to face death bravely. _

_“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time.”_

_“Empire loves their damn lists,” Ralof snickered to her and she smiled behind the fabric binding her mouth. As Ulfric’s name was called, Ralof shouted, “It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!” And that stormy blue gaze settled upon her face once more. A shiver went through her. It was as though he could see through her._

_“Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstead.”_

_Ralof went to step forward and she tried to grasp his hand, squeezing it as tightly as she was able for a moment. He smiled at her, just as the horse thief cried, “No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” And took off running. The Imperial captain called for him to halt but Lokir only retorted with, “You’re not going to kill me!” Before the archers were signaled and did just that._

_“Wait,” the Imperial with the list looked at her with confusion. “You there. Step forward. Who are you?” Carefully, he removed the binding from her mouth as she stood in front of him. Fresh air bombarded her sweaty skin, and she was instantly reminded that she hadn’t been allowed to bathe since she had been imprisoned in Skyrim and how frightful she must look standing in front of the High King of Skyrim. Her hair was lank and unwashed and she could only imagine the dirt on her._

_“Svala,” she answered tightly. The soldier raised an eyebrow at her, awaiting a surname. “Just Svala.” She had none to give. Her family was dead._

_The Imperial soldier sighed, checking his list once more. “You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman.” He said to her regretfully. “Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.”_

_The Captain shrugged, barely sparing her a passing glance. “Forget the list. She goes to the block.”_

_The Nord with the list sighed again. “By your orders, Captain. Follow the Captain, prisoner.” She obeyed, joining Ralof and Ulfric in line for the headman’s axe, along with another soldier wearing the same blue armor as Ralof._

_Tullius was circling around Ulfric like a hawk toying with a fresh kill. She wanted to hit him. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like The Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.” She could see Ulfric’s chiseled jaw threatening to work around the gag on his mouth and her eyes widened at the general’s words. He had killed the king? With only his voice? How? So Ulfric **wasn’t** king? What the hell had she missed? “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.” _

_There was a far off sound then, like a low rumble of thunder mixed with the call of a wolf. Everyone stilled, looking skywards._

_“What was that?” The list Nord (Hadvar? She thought she heard Ralof murmuring that when he saw him) asked, but no one paid much attention to him. Instead, Tullius called for the priestess of Arkay to administer the last rites. Her flowery words fell deaf on Svala’s ears- she was still scanning the skyline. Something wasn’t right._

_“For the love of Talos,” groaned the soldier next to Ralof. “Shut up and let’s get this over with.” He strode forward confidently as the priestess stopped her prayers and moved out of the way. He kneeled in front of the headsman, placing his head on the block. “C’mon, I haven’t got all morning.” Ralof’s face had gone sheet white, she noticed, and his breathing had stopped. She brushed her fingers against his hand once more. “My ancestors are smiling at me, imperials. Can you say the same?” The executioner’s axe swung high and true, lobbing off the man’s head with a dull thunk. The townspeople burst into shouts against the imperials and the Stormcloaks. Ah. So the king killer had his own army, did he? This just got more and more interesting. The rebel’s body was kicked away from the block, his head thrown into a straw basket._

_“Next, the Nord in rags!” The Captain called, motioning to her, and she stepped towards to the block. The smell of iron blood flooded her nose and she tried to scan the Thalmor agents closest to her, to see if she recognized one in particular. They just looked like all Altmer did- beautiful and pompous and tan- no one that she knew. She could feel Ulfric’s intense gaze burning holes into her back as she knelt in front of the bloody stump and stared up at the hooded executioner without blinking. She would show no fear. She was no coward. If Ulfric, for all he had done, could face his death with confidence and bravery so could she. Defiantly, she bowed her head, ready to place her neck upon the other man’s blood before_ _the world exploded around her._

_She felt the swing of the axe upon her cheek and saw the sharp steel edge embed itself in the dirt as the headsman stumbled to the side. Fire was raining from the sky in the form of a gigantic, black, scaly beast. A dragon. Its wingspan alone could block out the sun. “Fus Ro Dah!” It roared and she went flying backwards as though she had been thrown by a giant. She landed on her side with a thud, the breath knocked from her lungs, as she wheezed and coughed through the smoke and ash. “Hi. Nii hi,” the dragon spoke to her in its rumbling voice, its golden beady eyes fixated upon her. “Zu’u fen krii hi.”_

_Svala didn’t have to speak dragon tongue to be able to understand its meaning, and the concept alone terrified her as much as the words it spoke to her- it was promising to kill her. She was about to let it have its way before Ralof was pulling her to her feet and leading her through the burning village as they made their escape._

_“Zu’u fen krii hi, dovahkiin.”_

She awoke with a start, immediately going to reach underneath her pillow for a weapon. It didn’t matter where she slept- since Cyrodiil (since Trearil) she always kept a spare dagger beneath her pillow. When she felt nothing but mattress she frowned, trying to rise from her bed and falling back with a grunt of pain. Her body felt like lead.

“Oh good,” Lydia’s dry voice came from the corner of the room. Her room. Her housecarl was seated at the small table, casually eating a loaf of bread. She was in Breezehome? Why was she in Whiterun? “You’re alive.”

With a great matter of cursing, Svala was able to prop herself up on her elbows. “That was in question?” Huh. Why was she having such a hard time remembering what the hell had happened the night before? Damn hangover must’ve been worse than she thought... “Lydia, what happened last night?”

“Well, last night you starting moaning like you were being fucked by Sanguine himself,” Lydia said wryly with an impish grin. “I’ll have to meet this Brynjolf sometime. But Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak wasn’t too exactly too happy about it, so he rented a room at the Bannered Mare.”

She held up a hand before promptly vomiting on the side of the bed. Her housecarl just sighed from her seat. “Ulfric is _here?!_ Is he _mad_?!” Her stomach roiled and she retched again.

“I’m not cleaning that,” Lydia told her stonily. “And you’ve been here for a nearly a week, Svala. You showed up on Morndas and collapsed in front of Warmaiden’s before spending the next few days in a catatonic state. You’ve been off and on daily, and you have rockjoint _and_ ataxia. Danica was treating you and your little Stormcloak friend until Turdas when his lordship decided to send his court mage who took over both your care _and_ my bed. I also had to take your dagger because when I came to check on you, you nearly put it through my eye. Last night, Fredas, you finally started coming out of your fever when the moaning started, and Ulfric had arrived midday and was in the kitchen with me so we were treated to quite a performance. And, well, it’s dusk on Loredas and now you’re fully awake and vomiting on my floor.”

Oh. _Oh._ It all came crashing back to her with the force of a tidal wave. Brynjolf. Vilemyr Inn. Ralof. Galmar. High Hrothgar. _Ulfric_. Whiterun. Danica. The pieces all fit themselves together in her mind with such force she found herself vomiting once more. Lydia made an indignant noise before continuing to chew. “I have to go to Ivarstead,” she said, trying to rise once more but her muscles buckled beneath her. “Then to the Greybeards. It’s important.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lydia snapped. “You haven’t eaten in days.” Svala noticed the dark circles under her friend’s eyes for the first time, and the meager bed roll on the floor next to her own massive bed. Thankfully she had chosen to vomit on the opposite side.

“Well then I’m going to the temple.” She tried to rise again, only to collapse once more. However, Svala noticed the shadow that passed over Lydia’s face when she mentioned it. No. _No._ “Lydia...”

“I’m sorry,” Her housecarl said quietly, hanging her head. “I don’t know if that’s Brynjolf, but I do know you well enough to know you’d only drag someone here and cash in a favor if that someone was important to you. But he...there was too much damage. He was already dead when you brought him in.”

The wave of grief and guilt that overtook her was so powerful she needed to scream but couldn’t find the energy to do so. Instead, she laid back down and allowed herself to shake with silent sobs until she fell asleep.

* * *

Ulfric yawned and slowly rose from the meager bed he had purchased for the night. One downside to being in his own city disguised was that he was immune to the perks that came with being...well, him. Part of him was tempted to demand the housecarl’s bed for himself (Wuunferth be damned) but he settled on spending the night in The Bannered Mare upon hearing Svala’s moans. At least it was clear she wasn’t dying anymore.

He had been sitting in uncomfortable silence with the brunette Housecarl when it started. Softly, at first from the small upstairs in the meager home, he heard her cooing. Immediately his trousers shrank- he knew that sound. Once, he had been the cause of that sound. Lydia cleared her throat loudly, in what he suspected was a move to muffle the noise. However, once again there was the sweet sound of her moaning, growing louder by the second accompanied by a soft call of a name- “Bryn”.

“Bryn?” Ulfric asked at once, and the woman across from him looked as surprised as he felt. It was like all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Who in Talos’ name was _Bryn?!_ Was it some sort of pet name for Ralof? He could feel his anger growing as the dragonborn’s moaning continued to escalate in pitch and frequency. Lydia had even started to blush while she demurely ate her soup (some cabbage and leek slop that lacked salt). He had rose from the table then and stammered some excuse to her about how he was going to look elsewhere to spend the night, and that he would be back the next day to see Svala.

Yet when Ulfric fully adjusted to his surroundings within the inn, he realized that it was, once again, dark out. Dread crashed into him- _he had slept the whole day_?! As he dressed, his joints creaked in protest and his muscles were sore and strained- he was old. Old and soft. His aging body wasn’t used to spending hours on horseback anymore. The thought filled him with disgust and shame. Immediately, the memory of Svala’s passionate sounds came to his mind and he flushed angrily. He needed to know who this Bryn was.

He quickly made his way to Breezehome where Lydia was, once again, in the kitchen, seemingly waiting for him. “Your letter,” he began immediately upon entering. “You said that she was calling for me?” The brunette gave him a curt nod. “Did it...did it sound anything like that?”

Lydia smiled slightly, stirring whatever soup she was cooking. “A little. Jealous, Jarl Ulfric?”

He blushed, grinding his teeth in annoyance. Yes. “Of course not. Is she fully awake today?”

“Aye,” her Housecarl nodded. “But it’s not good. I had to tell her that her friend...what’s his name, Ragnar? Anyway, he’s dead. She’s taking it hard.”

Oh. Immediately Ulfric felt both relieved, and then guilty and selfish. Even if it meant Ralof was out of the picture, it didn’t bring him any joy to hear she was suffering. Besides, Ralof had been a good man and a loyal soldier. It was a true loss. “You’re relieved for the night,” he heard himself telling Lydia. “Take my room at the Bannered Mare and I will watch over Svala.”

The brunette’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “Jarl Ulfric...it’s a kind offer but you shouldn’t be serving anyone. She is my thane and I am more than happy to care for her.” Ulfric wanted to laugh at that- he didn’t doubt the woman’s loyalty to Svala, but it was clear to anyone how exhausted Lydia was. She did a decent job of hiding it, but he could also see how worried she had been for her friend. “Lydia, I insist. Svala fights in _my_ name. I number her among my own kin. Let me do her this honor.”

After she finally relented (on the condition he was able to feed and bathe Svala and “nothing else”), Ulfric found himself balancing a large metal bathing tub, half filled with steaming water, up the stairs to Svala’s room. He almost dropped the bath when he saw her- she looked awful. Curled up on her side in the center of her bed, he could see how waxy her skin looked and how thin she was. He was reminded instantly of seeing her in Helgen, striding towards the block. “Bone-Breaker?”

“Fuck off, Ulfric.” She mumbled into her pillow, her voice hollow and tight. She wouldn’t even look at him. However, it filled him with a strange sense of pride that even though he was disguised and hadn’t presented himself she still knew him.

“I’ve brought you a bath,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “And Lydia made you some vegetable soup.” Svala sighed and turned her back to him. “I’ve given Lydia the night off, as well. She will be staying in The Bannered Mare, on my coin.”

“She’s not yours to command,” she finally shifted to look at him, her green eyes dull and flat. “Why are you here, Ulfric? Because I didn’t report to you again?” She seemed so...empty.

“No,” he said. “I...I received word you were unwell. I came as soon as I could.” She studied him closely for a moment before motioning him over to her. “I need help undressing,” she said in quiet voice, sitting on the edge of her bed. When she went to stand, she groaned and her knees buckled. Ulfric was by her side in a moment, his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. Wordlessly, he pulled the sweaty shift from her body, trying not to gawk at the curves of her naked body. Even sickly, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He led her to the tub and helped her into the warm water, the sound of her pleasured sigh going straight to his cock. It had been too long since he had been in her presence, he reasoned with himself, busying himself with the task of finding sweet oils and herbs for her. He couldn’t focus on her nudity for too long- it would be his undoing. “There’s cedar oil,” she murmured from the bath, her head lolling back and her eyes closed. “Somewhere in the dresser. And lavender soap.” Sure enough, he found both items and poured a generous amount of the oil into the steaming water, carefully placing the soap near her. The moisture had turned her red hair a shade darker, but there were flecks of garnet still visible within it that sparkled in the dim light. “Mmm, if this war doesn’t pan out, you wouldn’t make a bad handmaiden.”

Ulfric chuckled slightly, pulling up a chair next to her. His thighs were still stiff, like a sour old man. “Do you need help bathing, my lady?” One green eye cracked open to stare at him, her eyebrow raising. “I mean nothing improper. I’m merely offering my assistance.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, though after a few moments of watching her wince and flounder around in the water as she struggled to clean herself, he finally took pity on her and removed the soap from her grasp. “Fine,” Svala relented hesitantly. “But don’t try anything or I’ll Shout you out the window.”

His large hands began to rub her shoulders, feeling the soft damp skin glide from his touch. Her skin was lightly freckled, and the clusters grew darker at the tops of her arms giving an appearance of almost permanent dirt. By the Nine, he wanted her. “You forget, I too know the way of the voice, dovahkiin,” he said in her ear. He could feel her shiver and repressed a groan. He would need to find a whore later- his hand would never satisfy now. He ran the soap down the curve of her spine before submerging his hand beneath the water and washing the gentle swell of her rump.

“Do you know dragonrend?” She asked suddenly, squirming in her attempt to face him. Ulfric’s eyes immediately flickered down to her breasts before settling back on her face. She noticed him noticing her with a half smile. “I- uh...yeah, I need to learn it.”

“Dragonrend?” He shook his head. In truth, Ulfric only knew two complete shouts- unrelenting force and disarm. Not to mention, to preform both of those shouts correctly took months of intense vocal training and practice, and using one nearly robbed him of all his stamina. Of course Svala, being Dragonborn, would not have the same difficulty using the thu’um and he (oddly) didn’t want her to think less of him. “I’m afraid I don’t. The Masters might know.”

“Why did you kill Torygg?” Svala asked curiously, changing the subject rapidly. “Why use the thu’um for that at all? Master Argenir wouldn’t approve.”

Ulfric laughed once. “Aye. He wouldn’t.” He couldn’t possibly tell her that he had used the voice to paint _himself_ as the Dragonborn in order to drum up support for his cause- what truer High King would Skyrim have if not the Dragonborn? Of course, this was before Helgen and before her. Still, the idea of parading around in her skin made him uncomfortable and guilty. “To send a message,” was his clipped answer.

“I hear there are couriers for that,” she quipped with a cheeky little smile. Good. He was glad she was starting to act like herself once more. His hands slid around to her front, running the soap bar up her navel to her chest, down the undersides of her breasts. His fingers gripped the soap in a vice so that he wouldn’t brush her bare skin accidentally. “Do you really only want a Skyrim filled with Nords?”

What had gotten into her? He was bathing her, Ralof was dead, and all she wanted to talk about was politics? “I want a Skyrim ruled by someone worthy of her,” Ulfric answered carefully. “I want the Aldimeri Dominion out of our affairs, and the Empire must be removed first for that to happen. Anyone who fights for the same is a true Nord.” It was a good answer, and a careful one. Maybe if she stayed by his side long enough, he’d start to believe it himself.

“I remember you in Helgen, you know,” she said softly, fully facing him now and removing the hood from his head. A wet hand caressed the side of his face gently. “You looked so sure, so confident, even though you knew you were going to die. So brave.” Her fingertips brushed over his lips and he felt his mouth opening on instinct. She was driving him mad, his skin was burning for her touch... “But I joined your war for Ralof, not for you.”

Ulfric felt as though she had slapped him. Of course, he had always suspected she carried her own reasons for giving him her allegiance, but to hear her speak so candidly of her dead lover made him want to both slap her and fuck her until she forgot who Ralof was. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said instead, stiffly. “Captain Ralof was-“

“How do you do it?” Tears made her eyes brighter than they normally were. “How do you convince yourself that it’s worth it? To lose all those people...in your name?” Her voice had dropped a timbre lower, her throat thick with emotion. He felt rooted, completely confused and perplexed, her hand still resting on his cheek. He had never seen her so...broken. “I’ve only had two people die for me and their voices will never quiet.”

“Svala,” his voice was little more than a rumble as his own large hand came to cup her cheek. Perhaps this Bryn was dead too. That would be rather convenient for him, but seeing her so heartbroken was doing odd things to him. “We are at war. Their deaths were honorable, and they feast in Sovngarde with their ancestors and the gods themselves. It is the best fate any of us could wish to have.” Ulfric wouldn’t tell her that since he had traveled to the city she had helped him take, he wasn’t able to sleep without hearing sounds of battle and the screams of the dead.

His words did nothing and she began to cry in earnest, staying silent as her body shook with sobs. He placed his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her to him so that their foreheads touched. “Look at me,” he ordered her softly and her eyes flew open, deep, bottomless green, the color of the hills of the Reach and as sharp as a glass dagger. His mouth grew dry just looking at her, and it took all of his immense self restraint not to press his mouth against hers. “Your loss has been great. You are ill and tired. You need food and sleep. Everything else can be dealt with come morning.”

“Stay with me?” She asked him quietly and quietly, doubt flickering in her gaze. “Just to sleep,” she added quickly with an edge. Ulfric nodded before stealing a light kiss on her temple (nothing more than a brush, really) and helping her stand from the bath. She stood before him, naked and dripping wet, and he would have sworn she was Dibella in the flesh. Still, he would keep things chaste and take things slow- she was ill after all, and still grieving. He would make her his in due time. For now, he simply helped her dress in a fresh robe before lying with her in the modest bed.

“It was never going to be a one time affair,” he murmured once her breathing had gone soft and slow, her ankles entwined around his own, her head pressed underneath his jawline so he could breathe in the clean scent of her hair.


	20. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! It’s been a busy week. Enjoy!

“Get up! Svala, you have to leave! Get up now!”

She stirred awake groggily at the shouting, only to discover her head draped over Ulfric’s chest. The Jarl was snoring softly, his arm wrapped protectively around her. It wasn’t as though she were tempted to move, but it wasn’t like Lydia to cause a fuss for nothing. Reluctantly, she dug an elbow into Ulfric’s side and his eyes flew open, focusing on her blearily. “Come on, get up. There’s trouble.”

Without waiting for Ulfric, Svala descended the ladder only to see Lydia standing by the door with her weapon drawn. “What’s going on?”

Her Housecarl thrust a sheet of paper at her with one hand, the other still wielding a sword. Her eyes scanned the page quickly, seeing a crudely drawn version of her own, scowling face staring back at her.

_Wanted for questioning_

_Reward: 20,000 septims (live capture **only** )_

_Be warned- subject is dangerous_

_-First Emissary Elenwen_

_-Justiciar Trearil Granor_

Her own wanted poster. Svala was filled with an odd sort of pride and almost wanted to have it framed and hung on her wall. However, there were pressing matters at the current moment, like having evidence Trearil was in _Skyrim_ for one. “Who gave this to you?!”

“Thalmor agents at The Bannered Mare,” Lydia answered tightly. “They’re playing nice, for now, but I wouldn’t like to put that to the test. Wuunferth is distracting them now but you don’t have long. Ulfric needs to leave too- if he’s seen with you-“

“I know.” Her stomach flipped uncomfortably when she thought about Trearil seeing her with another man. She knew he wouldn’t like it, especially given who Ulfric was. He would kill him, slowly and painfully, and probably make her watch or take active part. “Did one have a burned face?”

Lydia shook her head. “Don’t stick around to see for yourself, you idiot. _Go!”_

Ulfric was already coming down into the kitchen as she was ready to dash upstairs and get him. He was dressed in the same simple, dark, cloak he head been wearing before with a black cowl to hide most of his face. “Wear these robes,” he said, shoving a pair of mage’s robes at her (Wuunferth’s?), apparently having listened to her exchange with Lydia. “Take spare cloth and make a cowl from it. Extend your warpaint to cover your scar; it’s your most defining feature,” he was speaking in that hypnotic, calm, commanding voice of his and she was too overwhelmed to argue. Besides, a small, feminine piece of her realized that he must spend quite a bit of time looking at her to know her “most defining feature” and the thought filled her with a secret sort of glee.

“Fine,” she said, already changing in front of both Lydia and Ulfric shamelessly. “But that means _you_ can’t speak. Most defining feature, and all.” The frustrated opening and closing of Ulfric’s mouth made her want to cackle. After a moment of glowering at her, he finally nodded once. “Also, your name is going to be Gunad.” She added, smearing some soot from the cooking pit on her face.

“And yours?” Ulfric asked her curtly. She shook her head with a grin. “Don’t need one. People only know me by titles- very few actually know my name.”

“They’re leaving the Mare,” Lydia called tensely. “You need to leave, _now._ There’s a sack in the corner filled with potions from Wuunferth and some food. I put your dagger in there. Now go.”

“Come with us,” she blurted out. She knew Lydia wouldn’t, but still wished she would.

“I’m going to buy you some time. _Talos_ guide you,” Lydia gave her a genuine smile and a rather pointed look to Ulfric, whose bushy eyebrows rose in shock. She knew Lydia only said it to mock him. Svala grabbed his arm and hauled him out the front door, grinning to herself.

Svala spotted the Thalmor agents walking the market stalls and she fell into a quick stride, Ulfric’s long legs carrying him far as he fell into step beside her (with little effort). “We’ll take my horse. It will be safer to travel on one,” she whispered to him. “I’ll get you back to Windhelm and then I’m going to High Hrothgar.”

“Nonsense,” Ulfric’s low rumble replied. “I am going to escort you to Ivarstead in one piece and then **we** will go to High Hrothgar.”

“You’re probably the most important person in Skyrim right now, you dolt, it’s not safe.” she hissed to him, immediately accompanied by “And please, don’t let that go to your already huge head.”

“I could have _your_ head for that comment,” he said smugly. She had never wanted to hit him more. Thank Talos they were closing in on the main gates. “But luckily for you, right now I am ‘Gunad’.”

“My elderly father,” she added with an evil smile. She still hadn’t forgotten what Ulfric had said before she left. Since theirs was only a “one time” affair, she thought he would appreciate telling people they were family as they traveled.

“Well that would make our past rather awkward,” he said lightly, trying to make her laugh. She ignored him. In the light of day, her health finally improving, she found him insufferable. “Given I know how it sounds when you cum, screaming my name.” _Incredibly insufferable._

She was about to slap him when she heard sounds of a fight brewing. Looking behind her she saw Lydia, on the threshold of Breezehome, arguing with the Thalmor. “I told you, she doesn’t live here! I don’t know where she is!” Wuunferth was with the elves, looking apprehensively at her and Ulfric and back to the scene before him again.

“I find that hard to believe,” one said in the traditional haughty Altmer tone. “Considering she is your _thane_ and this is her property.”

“She’s away at war,” Lydia said evasively. “I have control of the homestead in her absence.” The brunette crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I can’t just conjure her out of thin air.”

“Who has her allegiance, I wonder?” The second agent remarked snidely. “Imperials or Rebels? Clearly, as her Housecarl you would know.”

“The lady is an Imperial,” Wuunferth spoke up suddenly and she felt Ulfric go still beside her. “I am here in service to Jarl Ulfric and I can say with authority that she is not part of his ranks.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lydia asked airily, catching on. “I could’ve sworn I saw her in a blue cuirass. I mean, the Empire _did_ try to kill her.”

“Hmm,” the first elf said, suddenly grabbing Lydia by the arm and motioning for the other to do the same to the mage. The two Altmer stared between the two, obviously unsure of who to believe; she had spent enough time among them to be able to read their body language, find the meanings hidden within. “Best you come with us then, in case we have anymore questions.”

Svala froze, every muscle in her body willing her into action. The only thing that anchored her in place was Ulfric’s large hand on her shoulder, keeping her rooted. “They’re buying us time,” his low voice said. “We need to leave, Svala.”

“They can’t take her.” She wouldn’t let Trearil destroy Lydia, to do the unspeakable things he had done to her to her friend. She wouldn’t allow anyone else to die because of her. She went to take a step forward when she felt Ulfric’s iron grip tighten and he began to pull her away. Her head whirled around to face him, her eyes boring into him. She began to struggle so he wrapped an arm around her waist and nearly hoisted her off the ground as he all but carried her to the stables. “Put me down!” She hissed venomously at him, watching helplessly as the gates to Whiterun swung closed, keeping Lydia, Wuunferth, and the damn elves out of view. Only after had Ulfric placed her on her own horse and taken his seat in back of her did she finally allow herself to breathe once more, snapping the reins on Nameless and drawing the horse into fast gallop. The prominent bulge of Ulfric’s apparent arousal digging into her ass only made her angrier with him, and once they were a safe enough distance away, she veered into the forest before snapping her head backwards into the Jarl’s face and driving him off the horse.

A small shred of concern (there _was_ a rather loud thud when he fell) made her look back and it was a mistake. Ulfric had risen, faster than she thought possible really, and grabbed the hem of her robes, pulling her from her mount. Nameless continued to gallop forward and she called for him, just as Ulfric was trying to drag her back to him. “Let me go!” She screamed, trying to kick him in the face, but the bastard ducked her attack and instead crushed her to his chest. He squeezed her so tightly she felt her bones rub.

“ _Let me go,”_ she repeated in a snarl, banging her head repeatedly into his chest. “Damn you, Lydia and Wuunferth-“

“ _Are doing their duty!”_ Ulfric roared so loudly she could feel the vibrations rumble within his throat. Several birds flew away in protest. “You will dishonor their sacrifice by getting yourself _killed!_ ”

“I’m going to kill _them!”_ She was still wiggling against him, trying to free herself desperately, trying to ignore the feel of Ulfric’s growing hardness rubbing against her. “You don’t understand-“

“I don’t?!” Ulfric repeated with a hollow laugh. “I have had bits of my own skin stripped from me and tanned into leather, manipulated to torture myself with my own guilt. I have known Wuunferth since my boyhood, since he served my father! He is more than a friend, he is my _kin_.”

“And yet you do nothing!” There would be bruises of his fingerprints on her skin, they were digging into her so. “You run and hide and have everyone else fight the hard fight for you, but you make damn sure you’re there to collect the glory! You’re _weak!”_ She was baiting him and she knew it; there was no way she could escape his grip, he had her beat in brute strength.

“I could have you imprisoned for this,” his hot breath said against her earlobe. She could feel the finer hairs of his beard scratching her neck, not unpleasantly. “I could even have you _killed_. Is that what you want?” The anger simmering in his tone made his voice dark and smooth. Divines, she was actually getting _aroused_ from this. Perhaps she was being possessed by Sheogorath.

Svala snorted, craning her head around to try and face Ulfric the best she could. “We both know you won’t kill me, _Jarl_ Ulfric. Where else would you put your cock?”

She registered the rage on Ulfric’s face and saw his palm raise to strike her, when she spun away from him, rolling under his outstretched arm and off to his side. He staggered, his hand still raised, looking around for her blindly as she began to rush towards him, ready to strike. He moved both arms in front of himself protectively in a defensive position, awaiting an attack that would never come. Svala had stopped, eyes glued to the sky, listening intently.

The low roar of a dragon could be heard in the distance.

“Kicking your ass will have to wait,” she spat at Ulfric before going to grab her weapon, only to be reminded of her current attire. Damn mage’s robes! Little good that would do her against a dragon. She saw he already had an axe in each hand, ready for battle. He too, had no armor. One direct hit from the beast would mean the end of them both. “We need to find higher ground.”

“The horse is gone,” Ulfric reminded her flatly. “As you already think me cowardly, I don’t feel any shame in suggesting we ‘run and hide’.”

A second roar sounded and she could feel the subtle vibrations in the earth that meant it was approaching and approaching _fast_. He was right. They couldn’t face the dragon in their current state, not without her full strength. “There’s a cave over there,” she pointed a few paces ahead to a small clearing surrounded by saber cats. “After we clear it, it should do. Dragons have terrible eyesight, seeing low terrain is hard for them.” He gave her a surprised look before nodding and crouching with her, moving stealthily behind tree trunks. As they stood before the group of cats, he tossed one axe to her before jumping on the one nearest to him and snapping its neck.

Svala tried not to notice the way it made the veins on Ulfric’s considerably thick arms pulse- she was mad at the man, for Talos’s sake! She needed to focus; the other cat, now alerted to their presence, was charging her, all teeth and claws. Swiftly she swung the axe, severing the cat’s jaw. It howled in pain, but on the second swing she sent her axe through its skull, silencing the awful yowling. She looked up to see Ulfric finishing the final saber cat, easily driving his own axe through its thick neck, the head bouncing and rolling away. Smugly, he wiped the blood from the weapon on his cloak, his stormy blue eyes locking with her own. She wasn’t sure if she was going to fight him or fuck him anymore.

They rushed into the cave just as the dragon came into view on the horizon, its long wings nearly blocking out the sun. She heard his breath catch as he stared beside her, undoubtedly remembering Helgen. “ _Dovahkiin!”_ She gave Ulfric a (slightly) panicked look before moving deeper into the cave until she (quite literally) stumbled upon a kahjiit skeleton.

Conjuring a spark of flame into her palm, a small campsite was brought into view, surrounded by the dim light from the glowing fungi lining the cave walls. There was a tent, a _single_ bedroll (to her _absolute_ dissatisfaction, Sanguine must have been having one hell of a laugh) a cooking spit, and a locked chest. “We’ll camp here for the night.” Ulfric declared, suddenly a Jarl once more. Fight. Definitely fight first. She sent a ball of flame hurtling toward the cooking spit, making sure a few sparks fell towards him.

“You’re angry with me,” he said, removing his cloak and sitting across from her. There were claw marks on his side from the saber cat that needed tended to- they had started to bleed. His top lip was swollen and split from her hit. “Even this, I do not understand. I rode to you when I heard you were ill, I bathed you. I stayed with you because you asked it of me. What have I done?”

Nothing, in truth. She knew, deep within herself, that she was angry with _herself_ more than anyone else- Ralof was dead, Lydia and Wuunferth had been captured, Brynjolf...her heart nearly stopped beating. In all the bedlam she had nearly forgotten about Brynjolf! Brynjolf, who was _waiting_ for her at Vilemyr Inn in _Ivarstead._ Svala groaned, her head falling into her hands. She knew Ulfric was still waiting for an answer so she decided on the one thing she _could_ be angry with him for- “I’m not your whore, here for you to use as you please.”

For a moment, a flicker of surprise crossed Ulfric’s impassive face, but he recovered quickly, cool and collected once more. “Even if I were your king?” He asked her smoothly, despite the blood dripping from his nose. “You have already sworn your allegiance to me as such, if only for your dead lover.”

Lover? “What are you talking about?” She asked him, genuinely puzzled. The only Stormcloak lover she had ever had was _the_ Stormcloak himself. “If you’re thinking Galmar and I-“

“Ralof,” his eyes narrowed at her as he cut her off. “This ‘Bryn’ perhaps, too.”

She felt herself go flush with anger first, then cold with shock. “You heard me,” she blushed once more as she muttered it aloud, more to herself than to him, remembering Lydia’s earlier comments. Talos, this day had gone from bad to worse.

“All of Tamriel heard you,” he snorted at her. “But it matters not. You have given your allegiance to _me,_ your service to _me._ I alone can dictate what that service entails.” She must’ve had a horrified expression upon her face because Ulfric simply shrugged and continued, “I don’t understand your hesitation. You clearly enjoyed our coupling and it’s obvious you still desire me. I am of a similar mindset. Many women would kill to have such attentions from their king.”

“You’re not king yet,” she snarled at him, moodily removing some leeks, cabbage, potatoes, and tomatoes from the sack Lydia had packed them before slicing them up with her dagger. “And I swore you my blade, not my cunt.”

“You swore me your _life_ ,” Ulfric corrected her. “I would remind you that your cunt _and_ your heart are included.”

Thankfully, the low rumble of the dragon still circling above them provided her a brief respite before having to respond. She supposed it was her own fault, baiting and fighting Ulfric, but he wasn’t playing fair. He was half nude, sitting across from her, staring at her with that smoldering expression that made it seem like he wanted to devour her. She knew that _he_ knew she was remembering their night together. Bastard. Truthfully, there was an itch building beneath her skin, the urge to lose herself in pleasure and sensation. She needed to stop thinking, stop worrying, stop _feeling_ and riding Ulfric until they both collapsed from exhaustion seemed like an excellent remedy. Still, she avoided looking at him more than necessary, adding some water from her water skin to the pot along with garlic and salt for good measure.

“You’re quiet,” he hummed, smirking at her. “Does this mean you agree? Or must I convince you?” His voice dropped in pitch, reducing to a throaty growl, and arousal flooded through her. He was standing then, moving slowly towards her like a predator stalking prey. Her heart sped up and her body froze, unsure of what reaction to take. One of his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her back flush against him. She could feel him beginning to harden as he softly ground himself against her rear, his hand cupping one of her breasts. She went to shove him away but his grip on her tightened, one hand going to the back of her throat and squeezing lightly, a reminder of his strength. “ _Submit,”_ he whispered to her, and she knew she was lost. His teeth grazed her jawline, going down to the junction of where her neck met shoulder, and he bit down harshly, causing her to gasp in pleasured pain. The hand that was on her breast had pushed up her robes harshly, finding its way between her legs and plunging into her waiting wetness. She could feel his chest rumble with a low moan in response, actively thrusting against her now, sloppy and impatient.

Suddenly she spun around to face him, capturing him in a brutal kiss. Her teeth pulled at his lips in more of a bite than anything else at first, until he responded just as savagely, tangling a hand in her hair and using it as leverage to try and control her motions. She did the same, yanking his own shaggy hair by the roots and pulling hard so that he growled, all but shoving her to the ground and straddling her, nearly ripping the robes in half in his haste to undress her. She bit him once more and the iron tang of blood filled her mouth, which only spurred him on more.

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head in a vice, freeing his cock from his smalls and pressing it against her entrance teasingly. Wrapping her legs around his waist she surged up to meet him, ramming his cock inside of her with a loud moan. She continued to gyrate her hips against him, keeping him inside her as her cunt squeezed him tightly. He was trying to push her hips down, to have his way with her, but she continued to thrash against him, trying to flip their positions and leaving them in a stalemate. “Submit,” Ulfric growled again, exiting her and slamming back inside with such force it knocked her breathless.

“ _Fus,_ ” she breathed when she was able and he was pushed onto his back. She took the opportunity to jump him (quite literally) and impale herself upon his cock, riding him hard and fast. “Never,” she moaned in his ear, pulling his hair harshly and biting his neck, leaving marks that would bruise. While there was a healthy dose of surprise written on his features, it didn’t seem to quell his desire any as she could feel his hips stuttering. He was close, and that was good, because so was she. She placed one hand on his throat before taking one of his hands and putting it on her own, squeezing just lightly enough that his eyes fluttered close and a final roar left his mouth, his release flooding inside of her. Her own climax crashed over her seconds after as she let out a silent scream on the skin of his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his scarred skin tasting sweat and his own musk.

When it was over, she climbed off him, running a hand through her mussed hair and trying not to look at the smugness that was undoubtedly painting Ulfric’s features. She removed the pot from the spit, grabbing a spoon from the sack and thrusting the soup at him. “Eat.”

“Well you only had to ask,” he purred at her with a wink, crawling over to her on hands and knees before licking a line up her (still sensitive) slit. She shrieked his name, trying to shove his head out of the way, but he only laughed (the vibrations doing wonderful things to her) and slipped his tongue inside of her, cleaning her of his own seed. She managed to put the pot of soup down (thank Talos for handles) before her knees buckled and she found herself sitting on the Jarl of Windhelm’s face. His rough beard was rubbing the inside of her thighs raw as she instinctually began to rock back and forth on his mouth, her moaning only increasing in volume the longer he continued. She could feel Ulfric’s own moans reverberated against her center and she cried out, her vision going white, her back arching as taut as a bow string.

After her wits returned to her once more, she climbed off him and made her way into the tent, letting the flap close behind her. She was mad, she had to be. She could hear the sounds of moaning and slapping skin outside and peered through the slit of the hide covering only to see Ulfric’s hand moving rapidly up and down his impressive length, fully hard once more. Remarkably, the sight filled her with desire (she must be possessed, there was no other explanation for the sheer endless hunger she had for him) and with a sigh she let the tent fall open before beckoning him inside.

It was going to be a long night.


	21. Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Another late update! 
> 
> Damn, Paarthunax really likes to talk...

Ulfric had her another two times that night, and come morning he felt younger than he had in years with Svala sleeping soundly next to him, his body pliant and relaxed.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. The dragon had moved on and she was adamant on leaving for High Hgrothgar as soon as possible. They had a meager breakfast of some goat cheese and grilled leeks before finding her unnamed horse waiting for them by the entrance to the cave. He was slightly stunned to see the stallion awaiting them, but she did not, offering the horse a green apple before climbing atop it.

They rode off in silence. At one point during the journey, he wondered aloud why she hadn’t asked after Sofie. Her posture had gone rigid and her response was chilling: “She’d be better off if I never returned.” Was she joining the Greybeards?? Surely not. She was a warrior...wasn’t she? It seemed the more Ulfric discovered about Svala, the more a mystery the woman remained to him. It was both what he allured and detested most about her.

Once they finally reached Ivarstead, she pulled the horse to a stop before turning to him. “I have to go alone. I’m sure someone inside the Inn can get you back to the palace safely.”

He frowned. “You forget, I trained with the Greybeards. While they might not agree with my choices, I have no doubt they would be hospitable.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not everything is about you, Ulfric. I just need to go alone.” Her tone stated that this was not a choice. He toyed with the idea of fighting her on it (she was just so delicious when she was angry) but there was a weariness on her face that gave him pause.

“Be careful out there,” he murmured to her, his fingertips going to her face, trailing along her scar. She recoiled angrily before nearly shoving him off the steed. She rode off quickly; he watched her until she became a speck in the distance. He said a silent prayer to Talos for her before heading into the inn to drown his sorrows and having to arrange travel back to Windhelm.

The inn was crowded, he found, and bursting with music and singing and life. Surrounded by a roaring fire in the hearth was a red headed man in plain clothes, playing a fiddle with a blonde Nord sitting on his lap. She was playing a lute and singing with him while the rest of the patrons joined in. “ _And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no mooooorreeeee...when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!_ ”

Ulfric took a seat up front, closest to the bards, studying the man closely. He wasn’t a _real_ bard, that much was plain. The ginger haired man was as alert as him, even if he acted a drunken fool. The girl was hiding something too- she was pretending to enjoy herself, but he could sense her discomfort and anxiety whenever she looked at her partner. They knew each other. He grabbed a tankard of what was ever closest to him and took a deep swing. Ale. He grimaced- he didn’t particularly care for ale. Still, if he drank enough of it, at least he could forget about the scent of Svala’s hair (juniper berries and fresh earth) for a while.

“Another!” A bald Nord sitting beside him called with a slur, raising his cup in the air. The male bard smiled mischievously, cat like blue eyes meeting his own gaze. “Aye, ok. Let’s change this up a bit, shall we?” He murmured something in the blonde’s ear and she gave him a surprised look before nodding, strumming softly on her lute. The man began to sing in a low, hoarse voice:

“ _We drink to our youth and to days come and gone_

_For the age of aggression is just about done._

_We’ll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own_

_With our blood and our steel we will take back our home._

_Down with Ulfric! Killer of kings_

_On the day of your death we’ll drink and we’ll sing._

_We’re the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives_

_And when Sovngarde beckons every one of us dies.”_

Ulfric’s thick fingers gripped his tankard tightly, his eyes narrowing at the singer. How _dare_ he? Ivarstead was under Riften‘s control, and _he_ had control of Riften. He wanted to have the man arrested right then and there, but he remembered sullenly that he was supposed to be lying low until he could arrange transport home.

“Strong, silent type eh?” The blonde bard had sidled up to him, the song having finished, smiling at him flirtatiously. She refilled his ale without him asking, and took a seat on the empty bench next to him.

“The song,” he muttered with disgust. “I was under the impression this was Stormcloak territory.”

The woman shrugged. “This is Ivarstead. We try to remain as neutral as possible.” She smiled brightly at him- Ulfric just wanted to drink in peace. “I’d be happy to play something else for you! My name is Lynly Star-Sung, I’m the bard here.”

He snorted, jerking a thumb in the singer’s direction. “Then who’s he? Surely Ivarstead isn’t in need of two bards.”

Lynly blushed, only confirming his suspicion that she already knew the man. “A traveler. He’s been staying here for about a week now, says he’s waiting for someone. A _woman_ ,” she waggled her eyebrows in suggestion at him. “But he pays well and he’s not a bad bard either, so I don’t make a fuss.”

“Why would you make a fuss?” Ulfric asked more to himself than to her, but she answered it anyway, eager for him to notice her. “I happen to know he’s involved in some shady dealings,” she told him in a conspiratorial whisper. “But I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

His eyebrow arched at her, deciding he would need to be sweet with her in order to get the full story. He placed his hand on top of her own, the perfect picture of chivalrous sincerity. “My lady, if this man is bothering you I would make it my duty to see him dealt with at once.”

She chewed her bottom lip, looking back at him through hooded eyes. So predictable. If he were in the mind to press it further, he was sure it wouldn’t take much more to get under her dress. “Oh no, good sir! Nothing like that. I just know him from home, and I’d rather not remember my home, my lord.” A brief flicker of pain crossed her face and for a fleeting moment, Ulfric almost felt pity on her, but as quickly as it came it had passed.

“And where is home?” He asked her, flashing her a charming smile. “You must be a true daughter of Skyrim; your beauty is resplendent.” Immediately, he chastised himself. He was supposed to be Gunad, not Ulfric, for Talos’s sake! He couldn’t be talking about “true daughters” of Skyrim. Luckily, this woman was as bright as she was talented, and if she made the connection she didn’t show it. “Riften!” She chirped with a deep blush, before clapping a hand over her mouth in surprise a second later.

Of course. Even when she wasn’t around to toy with him in person, her very presence in his life provided its own complications to compete. The pair must be connected to Svala somehow...they were all from Riften. It mattered not that Riften was the closest hold to Ivarstead...no. There _was_ a connection there. As he was going to continue pressing Lynly for more information, the ginger man called “Svidi!” in a way that was supposed to sound cheery, but he could hear the hidden, hard edge. The blonde’s head jerked up before sheepishly looking back at him in fear. “Please don’t tell Sibbi,” she asked him in a rush. He hadn’t the slightest who this Sibbi even _was._ She ran up to the bard and hissed at him, so sharply Ulfric could barely hear it in the din of the inn, “Bryn, you’re going to get me _killed_.”

Bryn. He saw red. Abruptly finishing his ale and slamming a few septims on the tabletop, he marched out before the urge to strangle this Bryn with his bare hands became too strong to resist. The cool mountain air did nothing to quell his rage, however, and only made him simmer in it. _Him_? That sleazy, drunken fool was her Bryn?? Stupid Imperial dog, probably a lowly sneak thief, probably even faking the accent.

As Ulfric stewed in his anger, he remembered that the nearest Stormcloak camp wasn’t too far from Ivarstead, maybe an hour or two walk away if he was brisk about it. He made it there by midday, his body still thrumming with angry energy despite his fatigue. The camp was relatively small, and most of his troops did not recognize him at first, until he bellowed to speak to the man in command.

Rorgun Asisorssen was one of his earliest, most vocal supporters; however, the man was nothing more than a gilded politician through and through. Ulfric had always suspected he was in the Black Briar’s pocket, and the man could hardly hold his weight with a weapon. Still, he had a good mind for strategy and was a respected (or feared) presence in Riften that would help keep the Jarl in line. “My Jarl,” Rorgun said with a bow. “It is an honor to have you in my camp. How may I assist you?”

“I need safe passage back to Windhelm,” he commanded gruffly. “I also want someone sent to Whiterun to collect Ralof’s remains, then deliver them to Riverwood. He has a sister there, Gerdur, and his noble sacrifice to our cause must be recognized appropriately.” In all truthfulness, he only did this hoping he would receive Svala’s favor. He considered it recompense for what he would say next: “There’s also the matter of an Imperial spy posing as a bard in Ivarstead. He is currently residing in Vilemyr Inn and has red hair. I want him escorted to Windhelm in chains; I would question him personally.”

Rorgun looked surprised for a moment before nodding vigorously. “Of course, my Jarl. It should be done. I will send my best men to arrest him and a few to escort you back to the palace.” The Jarl nodded once, his thoughts still lingering on this Bryn and the nature of his relationship with the Dragonborn, and how he was going to be able to secure her for himself once and for all.

* * *

7,000 steps was a bitch to climb once, but having to do it twice? Well, Svala had never been more grateful for the love Ulundil had for his wife. She made it to High Hgrothgar in half the time than it took her on her original visit (though she suspected it was due in part to not having to stop to battle frost trolls and ice wraiths).

Unfortunately, Arngeir was no help. Not only did he know nothing of Dragonrend but he outright refused to aid her all together. While her gut instinct had told her to persuade him using the sharp end of her blade, she ended up pressing enough that he eventually folded, honestly admitting he did not know the Shout she required but that _his_ master, the master of all the collective Greybeards, might. However, said master lived at the peak of the mountain and reaching him would be no easy feat. At least she got a new Shout out of it; clearing the skies could come in handy with all the time she was spending in Windhelm. 

Svala had never been so cold. Being a Nord, she had a pretty hearty resistance to Skyrim’s normal frigid temperatures, but climbing the Throat of the World was something all entirely different. Her blood itself felt as though it were crawling to a freeze inside her veins, and the longer she climbed the fuzzier her reason for the journey became. High Hgrothgar was no palace but it had fire and mead and warm beds...

When she finally reached the top, she almost jumped out of her skin. A damn _dragon_ was there, curled up, watching her intently. Immediately, her hand flew to her sword, drawing it defensively in front of herself. The Greybeards had sent her up there to _die??_ Weren’t they supposed to _serve_ her, the Dovahkiin?

“ _Drem Yol Luk._ Greetings, _wunduniik._ I am Paarthunax,” the dragon spoke to her in a deep rumble, similar to the one that haunted her dreams, but lacking the same sense of malice. “What brings you to my _strunmah_...my mountain?” _His_ mountain?

“I wasn’t expecting you to be a dragon,” Svala blurted, still staring wide eyed at the old beast. He _was_ rather old, she realized, noticing the dull scales and tattered folded wings. Older than any dragon she had ever fought, so she wasn’t keen on upsetting him. “Er...master?”

Paarthunax laughed and the ground beneath her feet shifted. “I am as my father Akatosh made me...as are you, Dovahkiin. Are you a Greybeard, _kiir,_ child? Only they call me _In,_ master.”

“You’re the master of the Greybeards?” She asked, stunned. No wonder Arngeir hated the Blades; if given the opportunity, Delphine would be eager to add Paarthunax’s head to the walls of her little inn.

“They see me as master. _Wuth. Onik._ Old and wise,” the dragon snorted, blowing a torrent of hot air in her direction. At least it warmed the chill which had taken up residency in her bones. “It is true I am old...”

She was beginning to lose patience- divines knew what Bryn was doing in Ivarstead while waiting for her. Perhaps even Ulfric had stayed...the thought both terrified and excited her. “You already know who I am.”

“Yes. _Vahzah._ You speak true. Forgive me, it had been long since I held _tinvaak_ with a stranger. I gave into the temptation to prolong our speech.” Paarthunax sounded so melancholy and lonely that her irritation with the old Dovah vanished. “Why live alone on a mountain if you love conversation?” Svala asked, sheathing her weapon.

“ _Evenaar Bahlok._ There are many hungers...it is better to deny than to feed... _Dreh ni nakip._ Discipline against the lesser aids in _qahnaar,_ denial of the greater.” A shiver passed through her for a moment, once again reminded that as kindly as it seemed, the beast could devour her within seconds.

“I need to learn the dragonrend Shout,” she blurted (again), anxious once more. “Can you teach me?”

She swore Paarthunax smiled at her through rows of jagged teeth. “ _Drem,_ patience. There are formalities which must be observed at the first meeting of two of the _dov_.” She wanted to dispute being considered a full dragon- it wasn’t as though she were flying around Skyrim eating people and destroying property, but he cut her off, continuing: “By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my _thu’um_! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are truly Dovahkiin!”

In a heartbeat, Svala suddenly understood with horrifying clarity what was about to happen; Paarthunax Shouted at her, _“Yol toor shull!”_ and a fiery inferno was suddenly hurtling towards her very vulnerable, very _mortal_ body. To her utter amazement, however, the flames hardly even reddened her skin; instead, the fire swirled around her form, performing a protective shell. The energy from the flames only helped to stoke her anger at the dov before her, for endangering her, for toying with her. Paarthunax shouted, instructing her, “Now, show me what you can do! Greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!” And she immediately responded, screaming tonelessly and watching the flames shoot out of her mouth, as well as the ones encircling her body, all in the direction of the old dovah. When she was done, her knees buckled in exhaustion, and she fell onto her ass in the snow.

“Aaaah yes,” Paarthunax crooned, eyes closed, as if savoring the feeling of the fire on his scaly hide. “ _Sossedov los mul._ The dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind.” One enormous yellow eye opened, staring her down intensely. “But you must be cautious. Your soul lacks _ro,_ balance. You linger in the _vod_. You must be only in the _nu_.”

She rolled her eyes; if she had wanted another mystical lecture, she could’ve stayed with Arngeir. “Do you know Dragonrend or not? I’m kind of on a schedule here.”

“ _Krosis._ Sorrowfully, no. It cannot be known to me. Your kind, _joorre,_ mortals, created it as a weapon against the _dov_. Our _hadrimme,_ our minds cannot even...comprehend its concepts.”

Svala sighed, deeply irritated. Why was nothing ever simple? “How I am supposed to learn it, then?”

Paarthunax chuckled, making the ground rumble once more. “ _Drem_. All in good time. First, I have a question for you. Why do you want to learn this _thu’um_?”

She rolled her eyes at the old dragon. “Umm...because I have to defeat Alduin? Big black dragon destroying the world?”

“Yes. Alduin... _zeymah._ The elder brother,” she felt her eyes go wide at Paarthunax’s words- Alduin was his _brother?_ That suddenly made the whole conversation rather awkward. “Gifted, grasping, and troublesome, and so often is the case with the firstborn. But why? Why must _you_ stop Alduin?”

She remembered Esbern’s words as he paced Delphine’s inn. “I...there’s a prophecy, right? I thought only the Dragonborn could defeat Alduin.”

“True,” Paarthunax agreed, humming softly. “But _qostiid_ , prophecy, tells what _may_ be, not what _should_ be. Just because you can do a thing does not always mean you should. Do you have no better reason for acting than destiny? Are you nothing more than a plaything of _dez_ , of fate?”

“So I should, what?” She snapped angrily. “Just let the world end? It’s easy for you to say that, you big immortal beast, but some of us don’t have the luxury of waiting for the next world to come rolling around.” Her thoughts turned to Bryn, Sofie, Lydia, Ralof, _Ulfric_. “Besides, I happen to like this world. I don’t want it to end.”

The old Dovah nodded. “ _Pruzah_. As good a reason as any. There are many who feel as you do, although not all. Some would say things _must_ end, so that the next may come to pass. Perhaps this world is simply the egg of the next _kalpa? Lein vokiin?_ Would you stop the next world from being born?”

Her head was beginning to spin from the taxing conversation she was having with the dragon. “The next world will have to take care of itself- divines be good, I won’t live to see it.”

“ _Paaz._ A fair answer. _Ro fus..._ maybe you only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of the world. Even we who ride the currents of time cannot see past Time’s end... _wuldsetiid los tahrodiis._ Those who try to hasten the end may delay it. Those who work to delay the end may bring it closer.” Oblivious to the sense of horror his speech had given Svala, Paarthunax continued. “But you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. _Krosis._ Now I will answer your question. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the _monahven?_ What you name Throat of the World?”

She resisted the urge to groan. “I thought you were answering my question.”

“ _Drem_ , patience. I am answering, in my way. This is the most sacred mountain in Skyrim. Most sacred mountain. The great mountain of the world. Here the ancient Tongues, the first mortal masters of the voice, brought Alduin to battle and defeated him.”

“Using the Dragonrend shout, right?”

Paarthunax’s large head shook, sending small pockets of snow to fall off the stone cliffs of the mountain. “Yes and no. _Viik nuz ni kran._ Alduin was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today seeking to...defeat him. The Nords of those days used Dragonrend to cripple Alduin, but this was not enough. _Ok mulaag unslaad._ It was the _kel_ \- the Elder Scroll. They used it to...cast him adrift on the currents of Time.”

Svala had only ever heard of the Elder Scrolls in stories her mother used to tell her, legends of scrolls so powerful they could change time and space. However, she remembered hearing stories about the Dragonborn too. “How does any of this help me?”

“You lack patience, Dovahkiin,” the dragon chastised her. “ _Tiid krent._ Time was...shattered because of what the Nords did to Alduin. If you brought that _kel_ , the Elder Scroll back here...to the _tiid-ahraan,_ the Time Wound...with the Elder Scroll that was used to break Time you may be able to...cast yourself back. To the other end of the break. You could learn Dragonrend from those who created it.”

“And how am I supposed to find an Elder Scroll?” She asked in exasperation, throwing up her hands. “It’s not like they’re available in any old shop!”

Paarthunax blinked one large eye at her, essentially shrugging at her plight. “Trust your instincts, Dovahkiin. Your blood will guide you. But you must find your _ro_ in order to succeed.”

All she was currently interested in finding was a hot meal and a soft bed, but given that most dragons had tried to kill, rather than converse with her, she didn’t want to be rude. “Thank you for your knowledge,” she gave Paarthunax another small bow, wondering what was appropriate. “I’m sorry in advance if I end up killing your brother.”

Paarthunax gave her another toothy, unsettling, not-quite smile. “May you choose wisely, Dovahkiin. It has been an honor having _tinvaak_ with you.”

After climbing back down 7,000 steps, exhausted and starving, Svala found herself having supper with the Greybeards. While the cabbage soup was neither particularly warm or tasty, it was something solid within her stomach. A few bottles of weak mead later and she hardly cared to find a bed, dosing on and off between sentences. Eventually, Arngeir had Wulfgar show her to a spare, stone bed. The next she knew, the sun was shining through the gaps of the cobbled walls and alerting her to a headache she didn’t remember having.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Arngeir appeared, bringing a cup of water and a wry smile. “So, you spoke to Parthunaax. The dragon bloodburns bright within you. Did he tell you what you wanted to know? Did he teach you the Dragonrend Shout?”

“Dragon likes to talk,” she muttered, draining the cup greedily. “But I suppose I understand the need for all the cloak and dagger now.” Arngeir’s mouth thinned into a tight line as she continued. “No. But he told me how to found out.”

He nodded, shocking her. She had expected another fight disguised as a political discussion. “So be it. If he believes it is necessary for you to learn this...we will bow to his wisdom.”

Svala smirked. He was about to eat those words. “I need the Elder Scroll the ancients used. Do you know where to find it?” 

“We have never concerned ourselves with the Scrolls,” Arngeir blinked, shocked. “The gods themselves would rightly fear to tamper with such things. As for where to find it...such blasphemies have always been the stock in trade of the mages of Winterhold. They may be able to tell you something about the Elder Scroll you seek.”

She frowned- she had never cared for mages, even before her capture. Corrium only added to that distaste. And Winterhold was even more miserable than Windhelm. “Paarthunax said my soul was out of balance,” she found herself telling the Greybeard slowly, surprising even herself at the sudden change in subject. “And a few times I’ve...well...it’s like I’ve _become_ fire. Do you know anything about this?”

The old man shook his head in surprise. “I can’t say that I do. Perhaps it has to do with your dragonblood.” Something in his eyes shifted as he stared at her- she realized he was no longer looking at her as though she were fully human, after a moment. Now she was a specimen, an oddity, to be studied. Balgruuf’s mage looked at her the same way after she killed that first dragon.

“I need to go,” she told him stiffly. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Arngeir nodded at her, oblivious to her irritation. Still, even as she began the descent of 7,000 steps once more, she found herself wondering just _where_ she would go to first.

Lydia and Wuunferth had been captured. Brynjolf was waiting for her in Ivarstead for an answer to his proposal. Ulfric obviously expected for her to return to Windhelm. Arngeir and Paarthunax wanted her to find the damn Elder Scroll. She groaned- how was she supposed to find _balance_ in this mess?!

She rode in the direction of the inn, needing a stiff drink. The rest could wait.


	22. Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay! I’ve been dealing with illness. I’m trying to keep going on this story but updates might be sporadic going forward.

Ulfric had to give this “Bryn” a small amount of credit- almost a fortnight imprisoned in his dungeons and the man still hadn’t cracked. Brynjolf refused to tell any of the torturers or guards sent anything about himself- he would only talk to Ulfric directly. And so, the Jarl of Windhelm was begrudgingly paying his prisoner a visit.

The red headed Nord was seated cross legged on a pile of dirty straw when Ulfric approached the bars of his cell. His blue eyes flickered to the new intrusion with passing curiosity, and his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Well, well. It’s about time I finally get to meet my illustrious host.”

“You’re my prisoner,” Ulfric snarled. “And you’d do well to remember that. My patience only extends so far.”

“You won’t kill me,” Bryn chuckled with a wet cough. Blood smeared the side of his mouth. Apparently he had mouthed off to the guards. “You know she’d kill you if you did.”

Ulfric felt his fists clench within his pockets. “I don’t know whom you’re referring to. I take orders from _no one_. I will be _king_.”

“Oh drop it,” the prisoner sighed loudly. “And calm down. The war’s not won yet, and you know _exactly_ which lass I’m referring to. I saw you with her in Ivarstead before she climbed the 7,000 steps.” Bloody spying bastard.

“She’s a member of my ranks, an officer.” Well, even if she wasn’t currently, he’d be quick to change that when (if) she returned to Windhelm.

“Whom you’re in love with.” Bryn finished flatly for him. His eyes had taken on a dangerous glint, making Ulfric glad he had him behind bars. “But see...here’s the rub in that, Jarl Ulfric. She’s _my_ lass. And see, I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

Ulfric stepped closer to the cell, gripping the iron bars. “Oh? I didn’t happen to see any rings or amulets on her last,” he sneered with a smile. “But then again, she wasn’t wearing anything at all, and the way she was screaming my name was rather distracting.”

If his words stung the prisoner, he hid it well. “That’s Little Lala,” he laughed bitterly, spraying more blood across the cell. “Always wanting what she can’t have. See, _Jarl_ Ulfric, I know her better than she probably knows herself. And I know that it ever truly came down to it? If she was ever pressed against the wall? She’d choose me. Every time.”

The idea of killing him was still quite tempting to Ulfric. But then, when Svala chose him (as she undoubtedly would) it would feel like a hollow victory. “Are you sure? It’s been almost a fortnight and I haven’t seen her coming to rescue you.”

For the first time, he saw a flicker of doubt pass over Brynjolf’s face. “You wouldn’t tell me if she had come.”

Ulfric snorted. “For one that claims to know her so well, you forget that even if I tried to stop her, were she even here, she’d somehow find a way to defy me.”

A genuine smile spread across Brynjolf’s lips. Ulfric couldn’t help but notice the way his bruised, swollen face lit up as he thought of her. Damn woman. Damn stupid, impulsive, brave, beautiful woman had ensnared them both. “Aye. I also know what she’d do to you if you killed me. Tell me, how attached are you to your bollocks?”

“Quite,” Ulfric smirked. “Which is why I’m not going to kill you.” Truthfully, he had no idea what he _was_ going to do to Brynjolf. He couldn’t set him free; he would run back to Svala and poison her against him, but keeping him in chains wasn’t ideal either. Luckily, the prisoner didn’t have to be dealt with immediately- there was still no word of Svala (much to his chagrin).

“I’ve committed no crime,” Brynjolf reminded him in a sing song tone. “And you can’t keep me here forever- my associates will come calling.”

The Jarl laughed. The thief certainly had high regard for himself, that was certain. “In time, I will have control of all of _Skyrim_. I have an entire army of fierce and loyal warriors. You think a few thugs and thieves will intimidate me?”

He shook his head, lank red hair falling in front of one blackened eye. “No, Jarl Ulfric. But I think losing her would. Tell me,” he licked his split lip. “Do you think she’d be happy as a queen? Lording over this country of yours, only Nords welcome? Being responsible for all those people? Having to stay in that cold palace day after day?”

Each word felt like a blow. He knew Brynjolf was right, he knew that she would never want to stay with him in Windhelm when the thief before him could offer her a life full of adventure. “Well,” he said, smiling tightly, trying to chase the thoughts from his mind. “Let’s see how you like it first.”

Ulfric spun on his heel to leave as his prisoner called after him, “You can’t just keep me here forever. I promise you, I swear to Nocturnal I _will_ get out!”

He didn’t dignify it with a response- a bloody Daedra devotee? Pathetic. Besides, he had more important things that needed his attention- he had been negotiating Wuunferth’s release with Elenwen through correspondence (because, quite frankly, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stomach seeing the Altmer bitch in person) but Lydia was another story entirely. The Thalmor were tight-lipped about Svala’s stoic housecarl which meant one of two things: either Svala had paid the embassy another visit or Lydia was already dead. He could only be grateful that Wuunferth was in the process of traveling back to Windhelm, _alive_.

Ulfric still remembered vividly what being tortured by the Thalmor felt like. When Elenwen had him during the Great War, he had been sure he would never make it out alive. The Mer had kept him on the very edge of his sanity, toying with him sadistically until he finally broke. She kept him unfed until he collapsed, barely hydrated, alone in the dark all day and night, and took flaming blades to his skin. “That hairy pelt of yours would look so charming above my mantle,” she’d sneer at him. “Only the best for the Bear of Markarth.”

Ulfric punched the nearest stone wall, feeling his knuckles split in protest. He despised when those particular memories would resurface, making him feel dizzy and helpless. The fact he had subjected Wuunferth to that same treatment, remembering the betrayal and judgement in Svala’s eyes as he stopped her from interfering...it still haunted him. He may have not caused Markarth to fall, but he was still a coward, which was equally as unforgivable to him. The chance of being discovered by the Thalmor that day in Whiterun terrified Ulfric more than he cared to admit, but he knew there wouldn’t be any room for fear with all of Skyrim under his command. He couldn’t afford to be soft.

“You alright?” Galmar asked him gruffly, sidling up to him. Ulfric snorted, punching the wall once more. “Take that as a no.”

“Why do you fight, Galmar?”

Galmar laughed. “You know I’d follow you into the depths of Oblivion, Ulfric. Just say the word.”

“I know,” Ulfric pressed his head against the cool stone of the wall, feeling his own blood cling to his beard. “But other than me, _why_ do you fight? There must be something deeper.”

“I’ll die before I let elves dictate the rule of men,” his friend growled. “Are we not one in this?”

Ulfric sighed, his eyes closing. He thought of Ralof, wide eyed and eager to please in Helgen. He thought of Wuunferth, laughing and instructing Sofie. He thought of Svala, sauntering into the palace with the Jagged Crown on her head. “I fight for the men I’ve held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, who’s names I heard whispered on their spare breaths. I fight for we few who _did_ come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I’ve already done hasn’t been for nothing. I fight...because I must.”

Galmar’s large hand clapped him on the back. “Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric. And that’s why you will be High King. But the day words are enough will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed.”

“I would gladly retire from the world were such a day to dawn.” He thought of building a house in the woods for Svala and Sofie and a few blonde haired, green eyed children...perhaps even a dog...

His general laughed sadly. “Aye. But in the meantime, we have a war to plan. Damn Imperials multiply like roaches- no matter how many we wipe out, twice as many more come to take their place.”

The last thing he wanted to talk about was the war, not when his thoughts were still lingering on a peaceful life with his Dragonborn. Still, his people needed him, and Skyrim only grew more and more unstable with each passing day. “There is a growing Thalmor presence in the Rift and Whiterun Hold. That should be our current concern.”

“They’re looking for her, you know,” Galmar frowned. “Give them what they want and get them out of Skyrim. Then we can take the fight to them, when we’re victorious.”

Ulfric tensed at Galmar’s suggestion. “No.” He said shortly before leading the other man into the war room. He would not hand her back over to the Thalmor, he would gladly _die_ before he would betray her- but Galmar did not need to be reminded of the depths of his affection for her. “You forget she is the Dragonborn and our best hope at solving the dragon problem. Would you willingly hand over such power into the hands of our enemies?”

Galmar’s grey eyebrows knit together in an obvious answer. “A dragon would be something,” he pondered. “Do you think we could get one to fight for us? Do you think Bone-Breaker could control it?” His eyes gleamed with bloodlust. “Think of the advantage! We could turn the Embassy into ashes!”

“I don’t think dragons care much for the affairs of men,” Ulfric answered dryly, though the thought of a char roasted Elenwen was rather tempting. “What about High Rock? Is there news?”

“Not a peep,” Galmar spat. “Those pissy Bretons can’t be made to lift a finger to help their neighbors.”

The Jarl sighed. Damn. He had been hoping the Bretons would join him; the truth was, it was as though his army was the size of a rabbit and trying to down a saber cat. Even with Svala’s instrumental help in battle, she was only one woman and currently missing in action. The simple answer was that he needed more bodies. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. They’ve never had many problems with the Empire.”

“Those milk drinkers? Might as well be elves. Think they’re better than us.”

He waved Galmar’s words away with a hand. “Regardless. It appears Skyrim must stand alone. Again.” He stared hard at the map in front of him, dotted with its little blue and red flags. “Didn’t Torsten bring up the idea of a navy?”

“The farmer?” Galmar snorted. “Can’t even do his ancestors proud by sailing. What, he’s going to supply you with a navy? I bet he wants the helm too.”

Ulfric scratched his beard, deep in thought. At first he had agreed with Galmar’s sentiment that a navy was unnecessary. But if there was a way he could stop the influx of troops to Solitude in the north... ”It wouldn’t need to be a fleet. A few ships, perhaps, just enough to choke the northern supply lines.”

His general grunted, pacing around the length of the table. “It could work,” he said after a moment. “But I still don’t trust a farmer to lead a warship. What about Lonely-Gale?”

“It would be a grave insult to take ships and men provided by the Cruel-Seas and give another man command.” Ulfric shook his head. Talos be good, all he needed was the ire of a local, noble family on top of the rest of it all. “No, Torsten had the idea for a navy, so he will have the honor of command.”

After a moment of tense silence, Galmar nodded once. He had become more taciturn since Ulfric had returned, often brooding when the two disagreed and constantly storming away from meetings. As much as Ulfric loved and respected him, he grew nervous that Galmar’s behavior would only encourage the notion that he had grown older and was too weak to rule. After all, wasn’t it at Galmar’s behest that he remain away from the battlefield? A sickening, niggling thought in the back of Ulfric’s mind suggested that perhaps Galmar was planning to usurp him. He disregarded it immediately, but the unease was hard to shake.

“He’ll be here tonight for dinner,” Galmar sneered. “Damn fool is anywhere there’s free food to be had.”

“He does grow most of it,” Ulfric reminded him, clapping him on the back. “I’m retiring until then. I don’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

“What if the wench comes back? Should I send her right up to your room?” In the name of diplomacy and friendship Ulfric didn’t dignify Galmar with an answer, not even turning to see the (likely) smug expression Galmar wore. Once he was safely inside his chambers, he let the door slam shut and drove his axe into one of the posts of his bed. He grabbed the nearest bottle of mead and downed it greedily.

He needed rest.

Whores had lost their interest to him, since the cave. She came _endlessly_ for him that day, around his fingers and his tongue and his cock. As the alcohol began to make his thoughts grow hazy, Ulfric weakly captured an image of Svala within his mind. However, instead of the ill-fitting mage robes he had last seen her in, she was wearing the skimpy pelts and skulls of the Forsworn. As much as thinking of The Great War put him off, he wouldn’t soon forget some of the tribal, warrior women he had bedded in his youth.

Ulfric collapsed onto the luxurious bed, finishing his first bottle of mead, starting a second, and removing his hardening cock from his trousers. His eyes fluttered closed as he took himself in hand, imagining Svala on her knees before him, her bright green eyes wide and playful as her lips stretched around his length. He hissed at the spike of pleasure that shot through him, gripping the sheets as his hips slowly began to thrust.

She would cup his balls in her rough, calloused palms- warrior hands- and hum as his speed increased. In his mind, he could feel the light graze of her teeth, the slickness of her throat constricting around him. Now they were in the dungeons, and he was looming over the cage of her ex lover, locking eyes with the pathetic thief as he spilled into her mouth with a roar. He’d take her there too, plunge into her dripping cunt until she cried his name like she did that first time when she made the walls shake...

Ulfric came with a strangled grunt; spilling himself over his fist and thighs. He finished the second bottle of mead and went to reach for a third when an odd, numbing sensation began to lick at his toes and creep up his legs like wildfire. However, his head was too warm and fuzzy with alcohol and orgasm for him to really question it, and he quickly fell into a dreamless sleep. It wasn’t until much later, when the fire had burned low in its hearth and he could feel a rag shoved in his mouth, that he began to worry.

Blearily, his gaze focused on a figure crouched at his desk, wearing the armor of his guards. He tried to call out, but the obstruction in his mouth made it nearly impossible, resulting in muffled grunts. “Shut up,” the intruder answered flippantly, waving a gloved hand in his direction. “I’ll see to you in a minute.”

Ulfric noticed two defining features- the gloves the figure was wearing were black and red, and the way the man pronounced his s’s came out more defined, like a slither. Argonian. Well, at least he could be sure it wasn’t _actually_ one of his guards, and that this was likely not a coup. He tried to thrash his arms and legs violently, only to find his body as stiff and unresponsive as a board.

“You’ve been paralyzed,” the Argonian drawled, unlocking his chest and slipping its golden contents into his pockets. “Don’t worry, you won’t feel it. Be lucky for that- if it were one of my brothers, I dare say he’d draw it out so you felt every...agonizing...second.”

He felt fear pool low in his belly. Ulfric couldn’t see a way out of his room alive. His own orders had demanded he remain undisturbed, and he was paralyzed and gagged. He could only hope Galmar would sense the danger, as he always seemed to, and come running...

...if he died he’d never see her again...

The door flew open suddenly and an arrow soared through the air quicker than Ulfric or the assassin could react to. The Argonian gave one last shuddering breath before slumping onto his face, blue blood painting the walls. An arrow jutted out of the back of his skull, pierced clean through the thick steel of the helmet. In the doorway stood a figure in buckled brown armor, armor he had seen in Svala’s own wardrobe...

Thieves Guild. Of course.

The thief was a dunmer besides, as if to add insult to injury, he could tell by the pallid grey complexion she had. Her eyes, however, were a startling violet rather than the usual crimson. It gave her willowy frame an ethereal quality, which only made her all the more terrifying to him. Brynjolf stood behind her, still battered and bloodied, his mouth hanging ajar. “Karliah, I told you to _leave it.”_

“I won’t have him become a martyr,” Karliah spat, her bow pointing at Ulfric, who was still paralyzed. “Let’s not give the racists a champion, now.” She made full eye contact with him and swirling within her violet gaze he could see the pure hatred she felt for him. Briefly, he wondered if she had taken out the assassin only to have the pleasure of killing him herself. However, she lowered her bow and helped to support the man at her side. “Now let’s go before the rest of them wake up.”

He tried to shout at them through the gag, slowly feeling sensation creep back into his feet. He wiggled his toes violently, helplessly, as he watched the two thieves slip away, undetected, as quickly as the blood pooling on the floor.


	23. Twenty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Sorry for the wait, hopefully this will tide you over. Thanks for all the praise and kind words, keep em coming!

Svala had made her way back to Vilemyr Inn only to find that Brynjolf was not there. While at first she had felt disappointed, she knew that it would’ve been unfair of her to think that he would've continued to wait for her indefinitely. With a sigh, she had decided to stay for a drink, admitting to herself that perhaps her and Brynjolf were an impossibility in her current life.

“You look like someone who can hold their liquor,” a Breton had clasped her on the shoulder, grinning at her. His golden eyes were sparkling with mischief and there was an undefinable quality about him that gave her pause. “How about a friendly contest to win a staff?”

She snorted. She had bested men bigger than her in drinking contests when she was still a child. “A drinking contest? You don’t stand a chance.”

The Breton laughed with a wide smile, showing rows of too-white teeth. She began to feel a peculiar warmth spread through her, as though she was already tipsy. "Ha! We’ll see about that. This is a special brew, very strong stuff. Let’s get started,” with a flourish, the man produced a skin of liquor from his robes and took a healthy swig before offering it to her. “Your turn.”

“Here we go,” she said with a wiggle of her eyebrows before downing the liquor. It certainly tasted like mead, but with a darker, headier undercurrent.

“One down, my friend,” her drinking companion smiled. “One down. And another one for me!” He gulped another long swig of the brew before handing it back to her. “And how about you?”

“A second drink, easy enough,” Svala shrugged, taking the skin and gulping the drink with gusto. She could feel the alcohol making her skin tingle. Perhaps she should slow down, but there was the matter of this staff (and her pride) at stake.

“So says you. I think I’ve hit my limit on these things,” the Breton grinned at her, passing the drink back to her hand once more. “Tell you what, one more and you win the contest.”

“One more. No problemsh,” Svala answered confidently, too inebriated to notice the definitive slur her words had taken. She chugged what was left in the wine skin before tossing the empty vessel to the floor. “Now gimme my staff...uh...what’sh your name??”

“Sam,” her drinking companion said quickly before continuing, “Wow, you’ve really done it! The staff is yours.”

“Thrash grape!” Her head had begun to spin.

“You know you’re a pretty fun person to drink with,” Sam said with an appreciative glance at her (or was he just openly ogling her? She was too drunk to tell properly). “I know this great place where the wine flows like water. We should head there! Hey, you don’t look so good...”

The next thing she knew, a bucket of water was being dumped on her and she was spluttering awake on a stone floor, next to a pile of her own vomit. “Wake up! That’s right, it’s time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer.” A very feminine voice told her, deeply irritated.

“Lydia?” Svala croaked, rubbing her eyes and trying to ignore her pounding head. “What...where am I?”

“Of course!” A priestess took form in front of her. The question remained, however, which temple that was. “You don’t remember getting here.”

“Blasphemer?” Svala asked, almost afraid to hear what she had done.

"I see," the priestess clicked her tongue at her. "So you don't remember fondling the statuary then?"

A vague flash of memory passed before her eyes, and she could see herself holding a statuary of Dibella against her groin and joking with Sam that her "staff" was bigger than his. Sweet Talos, she was fucked. "Unh, my head..."

"Yes, your head hurts and you don't know where you are. I'm guessing you also don't remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage and a goat. Which means you don't remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple." Venom dripped from every word.

"I'm sorry," she tried to aplogize (as humbly as she could through a blinding headache and roiling stomach). "I don't even remember how I got here."

"Oh I'd love to help you figure it out, but I'm too busy cleaning up the mess you made of our temple," the priestess snapped. "Now if you were to help clean up and apologize afterwards, I might be able to help you."

Svala sighed- she didnt have time to play maid to a bunch of Dibellans. "Tell me how I got here and I'll pay for the damages."

And so, she was pointed in the direction of Rorikstead, where upon entry she was met with angry shouting. Apparently, within her drunken adventures with Sam the Breton, she had stolen a prized goat from a Redguard farmer and given it to a band of giants. Needless to say, the farmer was none too pleased with her, and she had to threaten him in order to continue to retrace her steps. In hindsight, she supposed she could've just paid him off like the priestess, but she had been far too frustrated at the time.

It was within the trek to Whiterun (her next destination, apparently) that she began to suspect there was something...more to this particular quest. For one, it was hard for her to imagine how it was possible to travel from Ivarstead to Markarth to Whiterun all in the course of one night without magical aid. For another, every time she tried to replace her dirty, soiled robes for some respectable armor, said armor would change into the skimpy loincloths of the Forsworn women once it hit her skin.

Now Svala knew enough not to mess with the daedra. She had had a couple of run-ins with some of the daedric princes earlier in her travels, but after a disembodied voice spoke when she picked up some kind of orb and finding a talking dog on the road to Falkreath, it didn't take much convincing not to explore any further. People who willingly convorted with the daedra were only asking for trouble, either in their current life or the next. However, it seemed like she had drunkenly broken her own rule, and as tedious as the entire journey had become, she wasn't quite sure what would happen if she didn't see it through. Daedra were funny like that- especially since she wasn't entirely sure which daedric prince she was dealing with. Besides, she had been lucky so far in the sense that she had managed to remain undetected during her drunken romp, but she wanted to make completely sure that she had survived the night unseen by the Thalmor.

So Svala pressed on, reentering Whiterun with an elk skull on her head and gratuitous face paint. The Thalmor presence was still noticeable, but she was relieved to note that it wasn't as oppressive as it had been during her last visit. She ultimately found the young lass she had accosted for a wedding ring on that fateful night.

"So you're finally back," she said with a disappointed look. "Look, I've been patient, but you still owe me."

"Okay, how much do I owe you?" Svala groaned, already reaching for her purse.

"It's not about the money, really," the jeweler (Ysolda, maybe? Was that her name? It sounded right to Svala.) said plainly. "I wouldn't have given you the ring on credit if you weren't so obviously in love," Svala's stomach lurched uncomfortably- who had she been thinking of with such a purchase in mind?? Sam? Brynjolf?? Ulfric??? "But if there isn't going to be a wedding, the least you could do is give me my ring back. That was one of my best pieces."

Her head was beginning to throb as if she were still hungover. In fact, as she pondered this, she realized she had felt this way ever since meeting Sam in the inn...fucking daedra. "Do you know what I did with it?"

"You went right to give it to your fiancé! Don't you remember where you left him?" This woman was growing more and more disgusted with her by the second. "And after that sweet story of how you met in Witchmist Grove...I can see why he left you."

"I don't care about the fucking ring!" Svala roared, unmoved even when Ysolda's eyes widened in fear. "Tell me what else I said!"

"All right, all right. You're mean when you're sober," she pouted. "You said that the ceremony was going to be in Morvunskar. You said your friend Sam was going to be your best man." Well, apparently her thoughts hadn't been on marrying the Breton. Still, that left Svala with an uncomfortable question: Brynjolf or Ulfric?

Morvunskar turned out to be a ruined fort occupied by hostile mages. Now Svala wasn't as close minded as most Nords when it came to magic and mages- her mother probably would've gone to the College had her father not needed her help on the farm- but her imprisonment with Trearil had definitely solidified a healthy mistrust of them. She managed to take out the sentries and make her way into the fort, when she began to realize that clearing the entire compound was probably too big of an undertaking for herself alone. Luckily, she was able to creep through most of the sprawling ruin undetected, until she managed to happen upon a large open area with a shimmering portal in the center of it. There was a single mage sitting out in the open with his back to her, and if she were a decent archer she would've shot at him, but Svala knew her limitations. Instead she decided to make a run for it, narrowly escaping a bolt of lightning shot at her when she leapt headfirst through the portal, uncaring which plane of Oblivion it would transport her to.

Groaning, Svala cradled her head as she got to her feet. She was in a meadow, soft lights twinkled from tree branches all around her. There was a table in a small clearing a few paces in front of her, cluttered with a feast of food and drink, surrounded by a group of very mortal looking guests (much to her relief) who were too busy eating and conversing to pay her much notice. "You're here!" A familiar voice called. "I was beginning to think you might not make it."

She scowled at Sam, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "It was quite a trip. Where are we?"

"I thought you might not remember your first night here," the Breton said with a smirk, a mischievous glint in his eye that she did not care for one bit. "You had a big night. I definitely think you earned the staff."

Svala snorted to herself. Leaving without the damn staff had never been an option. "Cut the crap. I know you're daedra."

Sam's smile grew. "Oh-ho! Look at you! Yes, I picked very well, if I do say so myself. Got it all figured out, have you?"

Her eyes narrowed at him. "Almost. Who are you, exactly?"

Within the time it took her to blink, Sam the Breton was gone, and in his place stood an eight foot tall Daedric Prince in intimidating, spiked, black and red armor. In fact, it was difficult to tell where the armor ended and where the daedra's skin began. It was black as night, and blood red swirls decorated his face and hands. In a flash of morbid curiosity, Svala wondered where else on his body those swirls were... "I am Sanguine. Daedric Prince of debauchery!" He held up his hands in front of himself defensively. "I know, I know, how could I lie to you? Well how could I trust you until we shared a few drinks? But it wasn't before long that I realized you'd make a more interesting bearer of my not-quite-holy-staff than this waste of flesh." He motioned vaguely at a Nord sitting at the table, who had (somehow) become nude and was fiercely kissing the brunette to his right.

"Why did you choose me?" Even in her skimpy armor, Svala was as beginning to feel warm. It was as though just being in the prince's presence was an aphrodisiac.

"Let's be honest here- I don't always think my decisions through," Sanguine came to stand behind her, placing massive, clawed hands on her bare shoulders. The second he touched her skin she gasped; arousal instantly flooded her senses. Involuntarily she arched against him, encouraging his hands to travel the length of her body. "But you...you, my dear, are going places. I've had my eye on you for quite some time," her breath was getting labored as Sanguine's touch hovered over her breasts. "Toying with two powerful men, and not only that, but having them both eating out of your palm? Well, that's something even I could appreciate." One ebony claw flicked a pebbled nipple and she moaned loudly.

"Hands...off..." Svala panted, trying to clear her mind through the haze of lust that had overtaken her. However, Sanguine paid her no mind, instead ridding her of her top completely. She turned her head to avoid the daedra's lustful gaze only to notice that the other "guests" in attendance were now openly fornicating together in one massive orgy. She blushed and her eyes snapped closed.

"What's the matter?" His raspy voice cooed in her ear, one monstrous hand going to cup her through her smalls. She whimpered at the contact, tried to stop her hips from bucking into his touch. "Afraid I'd spoil you for them? Afraid that," Sanguine's lips trailed down her neck, sharp incisors nipping at the sensitive skin there, quickly followed by a forked tongue soothing the bites. "After knowing such impossible pleasure that you'd never find satisfaction with them again?"

Perhaps that would be easier than having to choose, Svala mused to herself. Besides, the temptation to stay in the grove with the sweet smell of flowers and grass and the sounds of ecstasy around her was growing by the second, with the very embodiment of debauchery behind her tracing circles on her skin. Here she could be nothing more than a sweaty mass of limbs and a vessel of pleasure- not the Dragonborn, the hero, the "savior". "Was there ever a real staff?" She asked him breathlessly as he ground his hips (and sizable erection) into her backside. "Or was it always a euphemism?"

"The staff! I almost forgot!" Sanguine cried, whirling her around to face him. The change in mood nearly made her dizzy. "It's easy to get carried away with you, my champion." The Daedric Prince gave her both a wink and a slap on the ass. The absence of his touch made her whimper in loss, as though she were nothing more than a bitch in heat. "But alas, now is not our time. Oh, don't you worry- I will have you one day, but that day is not today."

"Thanks, I guess," Svala muttered, unsure of what else to say.

"My pleasure," his smile was too wide and showed two rows of gleaming, too sharp teeth. "But I think it's time for you to go. No fun keeping you locked up here with the staff!"

The thought hit her suddenly, what she had wanted to ask him. "Wait! Before you send me back- who was I going to mar-" but she was unable to finish her sentence as she had suddenly ingested a mouth full of snow.

Of course. He had sent he directly into a snowbank. Still, at least Sanguine had the decency to, first of all, not send her back into the hornets' nest she had kicked at Morvunskar, and second, second of all, give her some proper clothing for Eastmarch's frigid temperatures. At least Svala was assuming she was in Eastmarch- she couldn't really see anything other than swirling winds and drifting snow.

"This one is hurt, yes?" The purr of a Khajiit came over the howls of winter. "This one needs help?"

"Where are we?" Svala called back. Odd. The Khajiit usually avoided the frigid north. "Near Windhelm or Winterhold?"

"I will take this one," the male came closer to her, grinning at her. "I will help this one, yes?"

"Just tell me where I am!" She stepped backwards. There was something about the Khajiit that was making her pause...something she didn't trust. Her hand went to her belt for her weapon only to find a large, wooden, flowered staff there instead. Her prize.

"This one does not understand. This one will come with me." The Khajit hissed and suddenly dove forward. Instinctively she thrust the staff out in front of herself, unaware of what the weapon actually did. For all Svala knew, it would just turn her into a man or send bubbles flying out of her ass. Luckily for her, it did neither of those things, and instead produced a hulking dremora warrior.

With a garbled battlecry the dremora surged forward and nearly cleaved the Khajiit in two. Howling in pain, the feline collapsed onto the snow, surrounded by a growing circle of red. "Stop! Don't kill him!" Svala cried, trying to stop the dremora from bringing his sword down once more. "I need to know who he's working with!" The ebony skinned warrior stared at her blankly, letting his weapon fall uselessly to his side. He seemed to judge her.

"Ransadar works with no one," the Khajiit wailed. "This one is just confused."

"Oh bullshit," she swore, stepping harshly on the bleeding stump of one of his former legs. "Where were you trying to take me?" She ground her boot harsher when there was no response. There. Let her dremora judge that. "Who sent you?" "Thal-almor," he panted, the fur on his face standing on end. "Burnt face...gave Ransadar so much gold...this one was to be brought alive and unharmed!"

Trearil. With a swift nod to the dremora, Svala turned her back as the sound of the Khajiit's pained whimpers and labored breathing went shrill then silent all together. Maybe Sanguine had done her a favor after all.

"Thank you," she told the dremora sincerely, placing a hand (gingerly) on his fist.

"There could be no other end," the warrior parroted at her blankly, before making another garbled shout and promptly disappearing back into Oblivion.

Svala sighed. Alone again. She began to walk.

She had a scroll to find.


	24. Twenty Four

They had poisoned the entire palace's mead supply, Ulfric learned later. Everyone had either been paralyzed or rendered unconscious- even the Arentino boy had snuck a bottle and didn't awake for three days. The sole guard outside his door had been killed, his throat slit and left to bleed out like a pig. The lad's wife had just birthed a son.

The assassin had been Brotherhood, which he had already suspected. When Galmar confirmed it, Ulfric took to bed for days. Whenever he closed his eyes he was back in Elenwen's cell, bruised and battered, the shadow of death closing in. He drank heavily, trying to clear his mind. He remembered, so vividly, Rea in these moments.

Before he had started up with Rikke, back during the Great War, there had been Rea. She was a Forsworn warrior to the core, wild and unkempt, and they had met when she had nearly captured him and held a blade to his throat. Ulfric had smashed his head into hers (breaking his own nose in the process) and when their wits returned to each other, he had kissed the blood from her lips. Moments later she was riding him, and after she came on his cock, she punched him in the eye and ran off. She was wild and impulsive and crass and if Ulfric was honest with himself, so much like Svala sometimes it pained him.

He and Rea continued an affair in secret until he was ultimately captured by Elenwen. In one of her more...creative attempts to break him, she had Rea dragged into his cell and placed in front of him. Her brown hair was matted and her eyes swollen shut and Ulfric had wanted to weep. "Still nothing?" Elenwen has asked him, as she noted how moved he was by seeing his lover, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. "A pity." With a motion of her bony hand, a handsome vampire was brought behind Rea. He had piercing red eyes, skin as white as a ghost, and coal black hair, and he smirked at Ulfric when he firmly affixed his fangs to the warrior's neck. Had he screamed? Rea's eyes had rolled back in her head and the color had drained from her skin until she was just a shell. As her body fell lifeless to the floor Elenwen just sighed and left him in darkness once more, the vampire licking his lips as he followed her out.

Was this to be Svala's fate as well? He couldn't say he loved Rea, they were so young and so opposite, drawn together by pure lust and curiosity; it was likely the reason why her brutal death had not caused him to completely unravel at the time. But Svala? Ulfric groaned to himself, rolling over in bed. No. He would not recover from that. Just the thought of her out there, alone, even capable as she was, made him ill.

"Ulfric," Galmar banged upon the door. "You need to get up."

He groaned in response. This had become a daily ritual (of sorts) since the attack. He would drink and sleep the days away, letting Jorlief handling the day to day and Galmar the war. It's not like he was really needed, anyway. As long as the idea of Ulfric was present, what did it matter if the man died?

"Wuunferth is back," Galmar continued with a hopeful tone. "And we need to talk strategy."

"I'll see him tomorrow," Ulfric replied, his voice hoarse from under use. "And I trust you implicitly. Now, leave me alone."

"Ok," he heard Galmar say, and then his door was blown off its hinges with a blast so powerful it shook the walls. Within an instant he was on his feet (ignoring the wobbling of his legs), with an axe in each hand. Only when he saw the familiar faces of Galmar and his court mage did he lower them. "I told you he was in bad shape."

Wuunferth hummed and nodded, pacing around Ulfric and inspecting him as though he were cattle at an auction. "Your father would be disappointed," was all the old mage said and it was more than enough; he felt as though he had been doused in icy water.

"Are you hurt?" Ulfric asked, trying to swallow his shame. "Elenwen assured me-"

"I'm fine," Wuunferth replied, waving his question away. His eyes narrowed at Ulfric. "But I wish I could say the same for you. What happened?"

"Someone sent the Brotherhood after him," Galmar growled. "Poisoned the whole castle too, but someone managed to take the lizard down before he could make good on his contract."

"And why was only one guard present?" The older mage snapped. "Someone of your experience, Galmar, should know better. Now if you'll excuse us, I have some things I would like to discuss with Ulfric. Alone."

Several different shades of frustration colored Galmar's face for a moment as his gaze shifted between the two men in front of him. Finally, with a curt nod to Wuunferth, he slammed the door and left.

"Well," his mage said pleasantly, turning back to Ulfric once more. "You look like shit. Truly, this...assassin attempt has caused you this much grief?"

"Are you implying I'm weak?" Ulfric snarled, uncorking a fresh bottle of mead. "I very nearly died, Wuunferth."

"As did I," the mage replied evenly. "And so have you, many times over of history serves correct. And yet here you sit in front of me, lounging in your own grief and filth. So I ask you again: what ails you?"

"She never came back," he blurted so suddenly it sounded foreign even to his own ears. "She left...again...and she hasn't come back. And-" Talos, the words just kept coming until his throat was thick and tears threatened to spill. Surely there was still a little poison left in him, playing with his mind.

Wuunferth laughed with a shake of his head. "Women are always to blame," he chuckled at Ulfric's grim expression. "Love is the worst illness there is."

"I don't love her," Ulfric snapped sharply. "I just...I want to know she is alive."

"What's the lucky maiden's name?" he asked as though Ulfric had not spoken. Still, the Jarl frowned.

"Wuunferth, you know her," Ulfric sighed. "It's Lady Svala. Bone-breaker?"

A shadow passed over the old wizard's face. "Ah yes. Of course," a slow bitter smile passed over his lips and then, in a flash, was gone. "Do you have any idea where she's gone?"

"We parted ways in Invarstead," he purposely left out her plans to return to High Hgrorthgar. There was something about his friend that was...different. Of course, he had been likely tortured by the Thalmor during his captivity, and Ulfric blanched remembering the care Rikke took feeding and bathing him after his own imprisonment. "Forgive my tone, Wuunferth. I know you must be weary from your travels. Please, rest. We have plenty of time to discuss this further later."

"Of course, my Jarl." While Wuunferth's voice remained even, there was a slight note of irritation coloring his tone. He gave a short bow and departed, leaving Ulfric alone with the bottle and his turbulent thoughts.

* * *

As soon as the smell of the salty sea air hit Svala's nose, she knew she was farther away from Winterhold than she originally thought. Solitude, perhaps? Maybe closer to Danwstar? Either way, it meant more time out in the howling wind, building meager shelters, and hunting for food.

Not that she minded, not really. It reminded her of when she had first returned to Skyrim before ending up in the back of that wagon with Ulfric and Ralof, bound for Helgen. Svala had never minded being alone before, as she skinned rabbits and roasted their flesh over a modest fire. The quiet was nice, and a luxury for the Dragonborn. Still, her thoughts always seemed to turn back to Alduin, and Brynjolf, and Ulfric.

Svala tried to write Brynjolf, several times in fact. Each time she intended to agree to his proposal, to tell him her intent to travel to Riften and plan the ceremony at the Temple of Mara. However, whenever her pen took to paper, her mind was flooded with memories of Ulfric in the cave, the feel of his prominent girth stretching her open so deliciously, the sound of his rough voice calling her beautiful. Could she really give that- him- up? It wasn't as though Brynjolf wasn't good in bed (quite the opposite, actually) but there was something about the Jarl of Windhelm that just set her very blood on fire. She was addicted. So much so, in fact, that she began to try and seek out her own pleasure, if only a poor substitute for the man she really wanted. Her orgasms were shallow and underwhelming and only darkened her mood further.

Maybe it had nothing to do with Ulfric at all, she tried to reason with herself. She had let herself grow accustomed to a certain level of...attention since her second life as the Dragonborn had begun. Perhaps she just needed any man (or mer or orc or dremora...) to fill her, or maybe it was stil a side effect of her dealings with Sanguine. Was he still in her mind? Was he playing with her? Or was she just slowly succumbing to madness?

Days passed and Svala continued to trek West, taking down a group of bandits (which she silently thanked Talos for; she had been in dire need of new armor and footwear) and a few packs of ice wolves. When she spotted Thalmor soldiers in the distance, however, her heart nearly stopped. How had they found her?? Her mouth dry, she watched as the gilded elven warriors continued on their path, seemingly oblivious to where Svala lurked in a nearby snowbank.

Huh. Solitude must've been close to a day's ride away, and if they weren't out looking for her, then what exactly were they doing out in Skyrim's wilds? It wasn't as though there was an overwhelming Thalmor presence. There was only one answer that fit- a prison. She had been wondering where Lydia and Wuunferth were being held...certainly the Legion would object to sharing Castle Dour with the Dominion.

She could continue on her way, to Winterhold. Find information about the scroll and get back to the task at hand- defeating Alduin. But still, Ralof's and Rune's faces swam in her mind's eye; she couldn't subject Lydia and Wuunferth to a similar fate.

"I must be mad," she muttered to herself, making sure Sanguine's Rose was firmly attached to her hip before skulking off after them. Her days of pickpocketing helped her keep pace; close enough to hear snippets of conversation, but far enough so that she remained undetected.

"...should be receiving word any day now. I know that Trearil is expecting things to go smoothly," came the arrogant voice of one of the guards and instantly her blood went cold. It hadn't quite occurred to her that she would be led directly to her tormentor.

"Why wouldn't it?" The other scoffed. They were heading towards the main entrance of the keep. Archers patrolled the parapets, Svala noted with displeasure. Once more she cursed her shortfalls in archery. She would need to play this smart- there was no way to take down all of them. "Justiciar Trearil is-" she had no desire to hear the rest, inserting her blade into the throat of speaking soldier, enjoying the way blood gurgled past his Altmer golden lips. The other guard spun around at the sound and she hurled her dagger at him, striking him directly between the eyes. With a final jerk he crumbled to the ground where she buried him in the snow, stealing the armor of the other before doing the same.

Her disguise made it easier to sneak past the sentries and allowed her to stroll directly into the keep. However, once inside, she found defenses sparse. Whenever she did happen upon a guard she killed them silently, usually pressing their own dagger into their back. Svala moved quickly, as she was essentially leaving a trail of corpses directly to her own location. She just needed to find where the prisoners were held...

Unfortunately, it was the sickening smell of burning flesh that led her to the interrogation chamber. As she neared the room she could hear the crackling of electricity and the smooth, haughty Altmer tone questioning a groaning man. "I assure you, I can do this all day. Now, what exactly do you know of this Dragonborn?"

Svala's heart stopped, her hand twitching on the grip of her sword.

"Nothing!!" The man wailed as the interrogator shot more lightning at him. "I swear!! I wasn't even in Whiterun when the dragon was killed!!"

"Where were you, then? Joining the Stormcloaks?" The Thalmor mage sneered and she saw red.

"FUS RO DAH!" She Shouted and the mer went flying off his feet smacking soundly into the stone wall behind him. She threw herself on top of him, pinning his limbs beneath her and holding a dagger to his throat. "Where is he? Where is Trearil??"

"Release me," the interrogator snarled, and she could hear the lightning crackling to life in his palms. "And I promise I won't hurt you more than necessary."

"Trearil," she repeated again, pressing the dagger harder against his skin. Beads of rich red blood welled up against the blade. "Where is he?"

"On assignment." The Altmer gasped. While his face was bored, she could feel the erratic beating of his heart, like a skittish rabbit. "Not here."

Svala studied him carefully for a moment before nodding. "I believe you," she said before sliding the dagger across his throat. Sprays of warm blood struck her face. She barely noticed, straightening herself up and scanning the torture chamber. The harsh breathing from the prisoner strung up on the wall did her head in.

There was a log on the table, next to various bloodied torture instruments and dirtied linens. She skimmed the tome, finding it to be a dossier on Thorald Grey-Mane. She pocketed the dossier, turning her attention to the man in front of her. His hair was dirty and matted, but under the grime it was clearly silver. "Thorald?"

"Aye," Thorald confirmed, lifting his head as much as he could muster to stare at her. "Help me." Wordlessly she removed the shackles from his wrists, catching him as he crumpled to his knees. She forced a healing potion (from her own pack) past his lips, satisfied when color began to return to his face.

"Can you fight?" Svala asked him, already handing him a sword from a nearby weapons rack.

"Aye," Thorald confirmed, uneasily taking to his feet and holding the sword. "But we need to leave- now."

She shook her head. "You go. I need to look for the cells."

Grey-Mane look conflicted as he stared at her, before finally admitting he could lead her to where the prisoners were kept. "But then we leave, quickly."

"Trust me," Svala laughed bitterly. "I have no interest in becoming a Thalmor prisoner." Again.

Thorald led her down a series of winding corridors before bringing them to a sudden halt. "Where there's one there's more," he murmured to her.

Svala was already squinting, trying to make out the faces of the prisoners in the cells lining the walls. "You're free to go," she reminded him. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it," there was a smile lacing Thorald's voice. "But I'd like to lend a hand just the same."

She had barely finished nodding at him before taking off in a silent sprint and cracking the neck of the guard on patrol. The entire maneuver took mere seconds and she smirked at the dumbfounded look on Thorald's face as he stood there, uselessly clutching his sword. "You're lookout. I need to find some people," she told him, beginning to pace in front of the cells, her heart hammering in her throat.

There were mostly women, Nords exclusively, their eyes listless and dull as they watched her. Svala felt sick, the feeling of phantom hands violating her. How many of these women had Trearil done the same to? Was that solely their purpose, their reason for being imprisoned? No. She breathed deeply, trying to dispel the rage burning within her. She needed to find Lydia and Wuunferth.

"Excuse me," she whispered to one of the women. "Have you seen a Nord woman, a warrior, with dark brown hair? And an old Nord mage, a male?"

The woman didn't turn her head to look at Svala-she stayed slumped against the wall of her cell. "No warrior," she answered in a hollow, brittle voice. "But aye, there was an old mage."

Was? "Where is he now?"

"Dead," came a different voice from a different cell. "Like all of us soon. So go now before you end up sharing the same fate."

She couldn't leave without seeing a body, before making absolutely certain Wuunferth was really dead. She knew Ulfric- she knew that his tawny beard smelled like pine and spice, that he often spoke in his sleep, that he liked snowberry marmalade on his sweet rolls...so she knew how he would react upon hearing a dear friend, a member of his court, had been murdered by an enemy. Given that the keep was not crawling with Stormcloaks, it was safe for Svala to assume that Ulfric didn't know his mage was dead. "Where is he?" She repeated.

"More are coming," Thorald urged from the end of the corridor. "We have to go!"

"Wait!" She hissed to Thorald, finding the levers to unlock the cells. They sprung open simultaneously revealing the various prisoners who were too weak to leave them. "Go! Get out of here!" She could feel their blank, dull gazes watching her, even after Thorald started to pull her away.

"I wasn't done!" Svala snapped, struggling against the hold the Nord had on her. "I need-" her voice died in her throat as the smell of decay hit her ultra-sensitive nose. "Bodies. I need to see-" her gaze fell on a cart shoved into a corner, heavily ladened with various corpses. Before he could react, she wrestled herself out of Thorald's grip by jabbing him in the stomach with her elbow, running to the cart and carefully sorting through the pale, swollen flesh.

Her heart nearly stopped when she found him.

He didn't look anything like the Wuunferth she remembered- his cheeks had sunken in (whether a result of death or imprisonment she couldn't be sure) and he was naked, showing the various purple and yellow splotches of old injuries marking his throat and ribs. His limbs protruded unevenly, like a puppet with cut strings, and his eyes bulged open, glassy and empty. Her stomach roiled.

"You there," came the commanding voice of one of the Altmer guards. There was two heading straight towards her. "Make yourself useful and throw out the refuse, rather than just staring at it. I mean honestly the smell-"

Before she could stop herself, she was Shouting, unable to quell the bottomless rage bubbling within herself. She watched the fire issue from her own mouth as though witnessing the scene from above, unable to move or think. The Mer shrieked as the flames ate away at their golden armor, ate away at their golden skin inside the molten metal. She saw Thorald in the shadows, his mouth agape, staring at her in a mix of horror and wonder.

When the fire reached the oily stone floor and ignited, she found her feet, grabbing Thorald's hand and sprinting wildly forwards. It was sheer luck that she managed to find a ladder, leading upwards to safety, considering her companion was too stunned to direct her. They were led out onto one of the sentry posts of the keep, coming face to face with Thalmor archers. "Down!" She cried and grabbed Thorald's arm tightly as they jumped.

With a groan they landed in the snow as arrows whizzed by their heads. "Can you stand?" Thorald's voice sounded muffled, as though he were speaking underwater. She tried to nod but could only groan in response. Air wouldn't reach her lungs. "Hey, hey, talk to me!"

Svala closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the pain in her body thrumming like a second heartbeat. "Fine," she rasped out, shakily making to her feet and clutching Sanguine's Rose as a crutch, which is only when it dawned upon her to use the weapon for its intended purpose. A dremora visualized in front of her before sprinting in the direction of the keep, shouting about blood and the Void. Satisfied, she collapsed once more into the snow.

"Come, we must move," Thorald's voice was now so close to her she could feel it...in fact she could, as he was pulling her to her feet and helping her walk through the snow. "Dragonbridge isn't too far from here, that's where they get their supplies, we can make it..." but Svala was too exhausted to listen, her eyes droopy and unfocused as she faded in and out of consciousness.


End file.
